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Charles  SStt.  Cljesnutt 


THE   CONJURE   WOMAN.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
THE  WIFE  OF  HIS  YOUTH.    Illustrated.    Crown 
8vo,  $1.50. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
Boston  and  New  York. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/wifeofhisyouthotches 


"THIS    IS   THE   WOMAN,    AND    I   AM   THE    MAN"  (page  2A) 


THE  WIFE  OF  HIS 
YOUTH 

AND  OTHER  STORIES  OF 
THE  COLOR  LINE 

BY 

CHARLES  W.  CHESNUTT 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  CLYDE  0.  DE  LAND 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

<Sfoe  firtiergibe  JBre$$,  Cambridge 
1901 


COPYRIGHT,  1S99,  BY  CHARLES  W.  CHESNUTT 
ALL  RIGHTS    RESERVED 


CONTENTS 


The  Wife  of  his  Youth 1 

Her  Virginia  Mammy 25 

The  Sheriff's  Children 60 

A  Matter  of  Principle 94 

Cicely's  Dream 132 

The  Passing  of  Grandison          ....  168 

Uncle  Wellington's  Wives 203 

The  Bouquet 269 

The  Web  of  Circumstance 291 


4o 

(0 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTKATIONS 

FAQB 

"  This  is  the  woman,  and  I  am  the  man  "  (page 

24) Frontispiece 

"  We  'll  bu's'  the  do'  open  "  76 

Perhaps  the  house  had  been  robbed  .        .        .    258 
"  For  white  people  only.    Others  please  keep 

out" 288 


THE  WIFE  OF  HIS  YOUTH 


Mr.  Ryder  was  going  to  give  a  ball. 
There  were  several  reasons  why  this  was  an 
opportune  time  for  such  an  event. 

Mr.  Ryder  might  aptly  be  called  the  dean 
of  the  Blue  Veins.  The  original  Blue  Veins 
were  a  little  society  of  colored  persons  organ- 
ized in  a  certain  Northern  city  shortly  after 
the  war.  Its  purpose  was  to  establish  and 
maintain  correct  social  standards  among  a 
people  whose  social  condition  presented  almost 
unlimited  room  for  improvement.  By  acci- 
dent, combined  perhaps  with  some  natural 
affinity,  the  society  consisted  of  individuals 
who  were,  generally  speaking,  more  white  than 
black.  Some  envious  outsider  made  the  sug- 
gestion that  no  one  was  eligible  for  member- 
ship who  was  not  white  enough  to  show  blue 
veins.  The  suggestion  was  readily  adopted 
by  those  who  were  not  of  the  favored  few, 


2  THE  WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

and  since  that  time  the  society,  though  pos- 
sessing a  longer  and  more  pretentious  name, 
had  been  known  far  and  wide  as  the  "  Blue 
Vein  Society,"  and  its  members  as  the  "  Blue 
Veins." 

The  Blue  Veins  did  not  allow  that  any  such 
requirement  existed  for  admission  to  their  cir- 
cle, but,  on  the  contrary,  declared  that  char- 
acter and  culture  were  the  only  things  con- 
sidered ;  and  that  if  most  of  their  members 
were  light-colored,  it  was  because  such  persons, 
as  a  rule,  had  had  better  opportunities  to 
qualify  themselves  for  membership.  Opinions 
differed,  too,  as  to  the  usefulness  of  the  so- 
ciety. There  were  those  who  had  been  known 
to  assail  it  violently  as  a  glaring  example  of 
the  very  prejudice  from  which  the  colored  race 
had  suffered  most ;  and  later,  when  such 
critics  had  succeeded  in  getting  on  the  inside, 
they  had  been  heard  to  maintain  with  zeal 
and  earnestness  that  the  society  was  a  life- 
boat, an  anchor,  a  bulwark  and  a  shield,  —  a 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  of  fire  by  night,  to 
guide  their  people  through  the  social  wilder- 
ness. Another  alleged  prerequisite  for  Blue 
Vein  membership  was  that  of  free  birth  ;  and 
while  there  was  really  no  such  requirement,  it 


THE  WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  3 

is  doubtless  true  that  very  few  of  the  members 
would  have  been  unable  to  meet  it  if  there 
had  been.  If  there  were  one  or  two  of  the 
older  members  who  had  come  up  from  the 
South  and  from  slavery,  their  history  presented 
enough  romantic  circumstances  to  rob  their 
servile  origin  of  its  grosser  aspects. 

While  there  were  no  such  tests  of  eligibil- 
ity, it  is  true  that  the  Blue  Veins  had  their 
notions  on  these  subjects,  and  that  not  all  of 
them  were  equally  liberal  in  regard  to  the 
things  they  collectively  disclaimed.  Mr. 
Ryder  was  one  of  the  most  conservative. 
Though  he  had  not  been  among  the  founders 
of  the  society,  but  had  come  in  some  years 
later,  his  genius  for  social  leadership  was  such 
that  he  had  speedily  become  its  recognized 
adviser  and  head,  the  custodian  of  its  stand- 
ards, and  the  preserver  of  its  traditions.  He 
shaped  its  social  policy,  was  active  in  provid- 
ing for  its  entertainment,  and  when  the  inter- 
est fell  off,  as  it  sometimes  did,  he  fanned  the 
embers  until  they  burst  again  into  a  cheerful 
flame. 

There  were  still  other  reasons  for  his  popu- 
larity. While  he  was  not  as  white  as  some 
of  the  Blue  Veins,  his  appearance  was  such 


4  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS    YOUTH 

as  to  confer  distinction  upon  them.  His  fea- 
tures were  of  a  refined  type,  his  hair  was 
almost  straight ;  he  was  always  neatly  dressed ; 
his  manners  were  irreproachable,  and  his 
morals  above  suspicion.  He  had  come  to 
Groveland  a  young  man,  and  obtaining  em- 
ployment in  the  office  of  a  railroad  company 
as  messenger  had  in  time  worked  himself  up 
to  the  position  of  stationery  clerk,  having 
charge  of  the  distribution  of  the  office  supplies 
for  the  whole  company.  Although  the  lack 
of  early  training  had  hindered  the  orderly 
development  of  a  naturally  fine  mind,  it  had 
not  prevented  him  from  doing  a  great  deal  of 
reading  or  from  forming  decidedly  literary 
tastes.  Poetry  was  his  passion.  He  could 
repeat  whole  pages  of  the  great  English 
poets ;  and  if  his  pronunciation  was  some- 
times faulty,  his  eye,  his  voice,  his  gestures, 
would  respond  to  the  changing  sentiment  with 
a  precision  that  revealed  a  poetic  soul  and 
disarmed  criticism.  He  was  economical,  and 
had  saved  money ;  he  owned  and  occupied  a 
very  comfortable  house  on  a  respectable  street. 
His  residence  was  handsomely  furnished,  con- 
taining among  other  things  a  good  library, 
especially  rich  in  poetry,  a  piano,  and  some 


THE  WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  5 

choice  engravings.  He  generally  shared  his 
house  with  some  young  couple,  who  looked 
after  his  wants  and  were  company  for  him  ; 
for  Mr.  Ryder  was  a  single  man.  In  the 
early  days  of  his  connection  with  the  Blue 
Veins  he  had  been  regarded  as  quite  a  catch, 
and  young  ladies  and  their  mothers  had 
manoeuvred  with  much  ingenuity  to  capture 
him.  Not,  however,  until  Mrs.  Molly  Dixon 
visited  Groveland  had  any  woman  ever  made 
him  wish  to  change  his  condition  to  that  of  a 
married  man. 

Mrs.  Dixon  had  come  to  Groveland  from 
Washington  in  the  spring,  and  before  the 
summer  was  over  she  had  won  Mr.  Ryder's 
heart.  She  possessed  many  attractive  quali- 
ties. She  was  much  younger  than  he  ;  in 
fact,  he  was  old  enough  to  have  been  her  fa- 
ther, though  no  one  knew  exactly  how  old  he 
was.  She  was  whiter  than  he,  and  better  ed- 
ucated. She  had  moved  in  the  best  colored 
society  of  the  country,  at  Washington,  and 
had  taught  in  the  schools  of  that  city.  Such 
a  superior  person  had  been  eagerly  welcomed 
to  the  Blue  Vein  Society,  and  had  taken  a 
leading  part  in  its  activities.  Mr.  Ryder  had 
at  first  been  attracted  by  her  charms  of  per- 


6  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

son,  for  she  was  very  good  looking  and  not 
over  twenty-five ;  then  by  her  refined  man- 
ners and  the  vivacity  of  her  wit.  Her  hus- 
band had  been  a  government  clerk,  and  at 
his  death  had  left  a  considerable  life  insur- 
ance. She  was  visiting  friends  in  Groveland, 
and,  finding  the  town  and  the  people  to  her 
liking,  had  prolonged  her  stay  indefinitely. 
She  had  not  seemed  displeased  at  Mr.  Ryder's 
attentions,  but  on  the  contrary  had  given 
him  every  proper  encouragement ;  indeed,  a 
younger  and  less  cautious  man  would  long 
since  have  spoken.  But  he  had  made  up  his 
mind,  and  had  only  to  determine  the  time 
when  he  would  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  He 
decided  to  give  a  ball  in  her  honor,  and  at 
some  time  during  the  evening  of  the  ball  to 
offer  her  his  heart  and  hand.  He  had  no 
special  fears  about  the  outcome,  but,  with  a 
little  touch  of  romance,  he  wanted  the  sur- 
roundings to  be  in  harmony  with  his  own 
feelings  when  he  should  have  received  the 
answer  he  expected. 

Mr.  Ryder  resolved  that  this  ball  should 
mark  an  epoch  in  the  social  history  of  Grove- 
land.  He  knew,  of  course,  —  no  one  could 
know  better,  —  the  entertainments  that  had 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  7 

taken  place  in  past  years,  and  what  must  be 
done  to  surpass  them.  His  ball  must  be 
worthy  of  the  lady  in  whose  honor  it  was  to 
be  given,  and  must,  by  the  quality  of  its 
guests,  set  an  example  for  the  future.  He 
had  observed  of  late  a  growing  liberality, 
almost  a  laxity,  in  social  matters,  even  among 
members  of  his  own  set,  and  had  several  times 
been  forced  to  meet  in  a  social  way  persons 
whose  complexions  and  callings  in  life  were 
hardly  up  to  the  standard  which  he  considered 
proper  for  the  society  to  maintain.  He  had  a 
theory  of  his  own. 

"  I  have  no  race  prejudice,"  he  would  say, 
"  but  we  people  of  mixed  blood  are  ground 
between  the  upper  and  the  nether  millstone. 
Our  fate  lies  between  absorption  by  the  white 
race  and  extinction  in  the  black.  The  one 
does  n't  want  us  yet,  but  may  take  us  in  time. 
The  other  would  welcome  us,  but  it  would  be 
for  us  a  backward  step.  '  With  malice  to- 
wards none,  with  charity  for  all,'  we  must  do 
the  best  we  can  for  ourselves  and  those  who 
are  to  follow  us.  Self-preservation  is  the  first 
law  of  nature." 

His  ball  would  serve  by  its  exclusiveness  to 
counteract  leveling  tendencies,  and  his  mar- 


8  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

riage  with  Mrs.  Dixon  would  help  to  further 
the  upward  process  of  absorption  he  had  been 
wishing  and  waiting  for. 

n 

The  ball  was  to  take  place  on  Friday  night. 
The  house  had  been  put  in  order,  the  carpets 
covered  with  canvas,  the  halls  and  stairs  de- 
corated with  palms  and  potted  plants  ;  and  in 
the  afternoon  Mr.  Ryder  sat  on  his  front 
porch,  which  the  shade  of  a  vine  running  up 
over  a  wire  netting  made  a  cool  and  pleasant 
lounging  place.  He  expected  to  respond  to 
the  toast  "  The  Ladies  "  at  the  supper,  and 
from  a  volume  of  Tennyson  —  his  favorite 
poet  —  was  fortifying  himself  with  apt  quo- 
tations. The  volume  was  open  at  "  A  Dream 
of  Fair  Women."  His  eyes  fell  on  these  lines, 
and  he  read  them  aloud  to  judge  better  of 
their  effect :  — 

"  At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there  ; 
A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

He  marked  the  verse,  and  turning  the  page 
read  the  stanza  beginning,  — 

"  O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret." 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  9 

He  weighed  the  passage  a  moment,  and  de- 
cided that  it  would  not  do.  Mrs.  Dixon  was 
the  palest  lady  he  expected  at  the  ball,  and 
she  was  of  a  rather  ruddy  complexion,  and  of 
lively  disposition  and  buxom  build.  So  he 
ran  over  the  leaves  until  his  eye  rested  on 
the  description  of  Queen  Guinevere :  — 

"  She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  : 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ;        \ 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 
Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

"  She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 
The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips." 

As  Mr.  Ryder  murmured  these  words  au- 
dibly, with  an  appreciative  thrill,  he  heard 
the  latch  of  his  gate  click,  and  a  light  foot- 
fall sounding  on  the  steps.  He  turned  his 
head,  and  saw  a  woman  standing  before  his 
door. 

She  was  a  little  woman,  not  five  feet  tall, 
and  proportioned  to  her  height.  Although 
she  stood  erect,  and  looked  around  her  with 
very   bright   and    restless   eyes,  she    seemed 


10  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

quite  old ;  for  her  face  was  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  with  a  hundred  wrinkles,  and  around 
the  edges  of  her  bonnet  could  be  seen  pro- 
truding here  and  there  a  tuft  of  short  gray 
wool.  She  wore  a  blue  calico  gown  of 
ancient  cut,  a  little  red  shawl  fastened  around 
her  shoulders  with  an  old-fashioned  brass 
brooch,  and  a  large  bonnet  profusely  orna- 
mented with  faded  red  and  yellow  artificial 
flowers.  And  she  was  very  black,  —  so  black 
that  her  toothless  gums,  revealed  when  she 
opened  her  mouth  to  speak,  were  not  red,  but 
blue.  She  looked  like  a  bit  of  the  old  plan- 
tation life,  summoned  up  from  the  past  by 
the  wave  of  a  magician's  wand,  as  the  poet's 
fancy  had  called  into  being  the  gracious 
shapes  of  which  Mr.  Ryder  had  just  been 
reading. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  came  over  to 
where  she  stood. 

"  Good-afternoon,  madam,"  he  said. 

"  Good-evenin',  suh,"  she  answered,  duck- 
ing suddenly  with  a  quaint  curtsy.  Her 
voice  was  shrill  and  piping,  but  softened 
somewhat  by  age.  "  Is  dis  yere  whar  Mistuh 
Ryduh  lib,  suh  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  around 
her  doubtfully,  and  glancing  into  the  open 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  11 

windows,  through  which  some  of  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  evening:  were  visible. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  an  air  of  kindly 
patronage,  unconsciously  flattered  by  her  man- 
ner, "  I  am  Mr.  Ryder.  Did  you  want  to  see 
me?" 

"  Yas,  suh,  ef  I  ain't  'sturbin'  of  you  too 
much." 

"  Not  at  all.  Have  a  seat  over  here  behind 
the  vine,  where  it  is  cool.  What  can  I  do 
for  you  ?  " 

"  'Scuse  me,  suh,"  she  continued,  when  she 
had  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  "  'scuse 
me,  suh,  I 's  lookin'  for  my  husban'.  I  heerd 
you  wuz  a  big  man  an'  had  libbed  heah  a 
long  time,  an'  I  'lowed  you  would  n't  min'  ef 
I  'd  come  roun'  an'  ax  you  ef  you  'd  ever 
heerd  of  a  merlatter  man  by  de  name  er  Sam 
Taylor  'quirin'  roun'  in  de  chu'ches  ermongs' 
de  people  fer  his  wife  'Liza  Jane  ?  " 

Mr.  Ryder  seemed  to  think  for  a  moment. 

"  There  used  to  be  many  such  cases  right 
after  the  war,"  he  said,  "  but  it  has  been 
so  long  that  I  have  forgotten  them.  There 
are  very  few  now.  But  tell  me  your  story, 
and  it  may  refresh  my  memory." 

She  sat  back  farther  in  her  chair  so  as  to 


12  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

be  more  comfortable,  and  folded  ber  withered 
bands  in  ber  lap. 

"  My  name  's  'Liza,  "  sbe  began,  "  'Liza 
Jane.  Wen  I  wuz  young-  I  us'ter  b'long  ter 
Marse  Bob  Smif,  down  in  ole  Missoura.  I 
wuz  bawn  down  dere.  Wen  I  wuz  a  gal 
I  wuz  married  ter  a  man  named  Jim.  But 
Jim  died,  an'  after  dat  I  married  a  merlatter 
man  named  Sam  Taylor.  Sam  wuz  free- 
bawn,  but  bis  mammy  and  daddy  died, 
an'  de  w'ite  folks  'prenticed  bim  ter  my 
marster  fer  ter  work  fer  'im  'tel  he  wuz 
growed  up.  Sam  worked  in  de  fiel',  an'  I 
wuz  de  cook.  One  day  Ma'y  Ann,  ole  miss's 
maid,  came  rusbin'  out  ter  de  kitchen,  an' 
says  she,  '  'Liza  Jane,  ole  marse  gwine  sell 
yo'  Sam  down  de  ribber.' 

" '  Go  way  f 'm  yere,'  says  I ;  '  my  bus- 
ban*  's  free  ! ' 

"'Don'  make  no  diff'ence.  I  heerd  ole 
marse  tell  ole  miss  he  wuz  gwine  take  yo' 
Sam  'way  wid  'im  ter-morrow,  fer  he  needed 
money,  an'  he  knowed  whar  he  could  git  a 
t'ousan'  dollars  fer  Sam  an'  no  questions 
axed.' 

"  Wen  Sam  come  home  f'm  de  fiel'  dat 
night,    I    tole    him    'bout    ole    marse   gwine 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  13 

steal  'im,  an'  Sam  run  erway.  His  time  wuz 
mos'  up,  an'  he  swo'  dat  w'en  he  wuz  twenty- 
one  he  would  come  back  an'  he'p  me  run 
erway,  er  else  save  up  de  money  ter  buy  my 
freedom.  An'  I  know  he  'd  'a'  done  it,  f er 
he  thought  a  heap  er  me,  Sam  did.  But  w'en 
he  come  back  he  did  n'  fin'  me,  f  er  I  wuz  n' 
dere.  Ole  marse  had  heerd  dat  I  warned 
Sam,  so  he  had  me  whip'  an'  sol'  down  de 
ribber. 

"  Den  de  wah  broke  out,  an'  w'en  it  wuz 
ober  de  cullud  folks  wuz  scattered.  I  went 
back  ter  de  ole  home  ;  but  Sam  wuz  n'  dere, 
an'  I  could  n'  l'arn  nuffin'  'bout  'im.  But  I 
knowed  he  'd  be'n  dere  to  look  fer  me  an' 
had  n'  f oun'  me,  an'  had  gone  erway  ter  hunt 
fer  me. 

"  I 's  be'n  lookin'  fer  'im  eber  sence,"  she 
added  simply,  as  though  twenty-five  years 
were  but  a  couple  of  weeks,  "  an'  I  knows 
he  's  be'n  lookin'  fer  me.  Fer  he  sot  a  heap 
er  sto'  by  me,  Sam  did,  an'  I  know  he  's  be'n 
huntin'  fer  me  all  dese  years,  —  'less'n  he  's 
be'n  sick  er  sump'n,  so  he  could  n'  work,  er 
out'n  his  head,  so  he  could  n'  'member  his 
promise.  I  went  back  down  de  ribber,  fer  I 
'lowed  he  'd  gone  down  dere  lookin'  fer  me. 


14  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

I's  be'n  ter  Noo  Orleens,  an'  Atlanty,  an' 
Charleston,  an'  Richmon'  ;  an'  w'en  I  'd  be'n 
all  ober  de  Souf  I  come  ter  de  Norf.  Per  I 
knows  I  '11  fin'  'im  some  er  dese  days,"  she 
added  softly,  "  er  he  '11  fin'  me,  an'  den  we  '11 
bofe  be  as  happy  in  freedom  as  we  wuz  in  de 
ole  days  befo'  de  wall."  A  smile  stole  over 
her  withered  countenance  as  she  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  her  bright  eyes  softened  into  a  far- 
away look. 

This  was  the  substance  of  the  old  woman's 
story.  She  had  wandered  a  little  here  and 
there.  Mr.  Ryder  was  looking  at  her  curi- 
ously when  she  finished. 

"  How  have  you  lived  all  these  years  ?  "  he 
asked. 

" Cookin',  suh.  I's  a  good  cook.  Does 
you  know  anybody  w'at  needs  a  good  cook, 
suh ?  I's  stoppin'  wid  a  cullud  f am'ly  roun' 
de  corner  yonder  'tel  I  kin  git  a  place." 

"Do  you  really  expect  to  find  your  hus- 
band ?     He  may  be  dead  long  ago." 

She  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "  Oh 
no,  he  ain'  dead.  De  signs  an'  de  tokens  tells 
me.  I  dremp  three  nights  runnin'  on'y  dis  las' 
week  dat  I  foun'  him." 

"He  may  have  married   another   woman. 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  15 

Your  slave  marriage  would  not  have  pre- 
vented him,  for  you  never  lived  with  him 
after  the  war,  and  without  that  your  marriage 
does  n't  count." 

"  Would  n'  make  no  diff'ence  wid  Sam. 
He  would  n'  marry  no  yuther  'ooman  'tel  he 
foun'  out  'bout  me.  I  knows  it,"  she  added. 
{i  Sump'n  's  be'n  tellin'  me  all  dese  years  dat 
I 's  £wine  fin'  Sam  'fo'  I  dies." 

"  Perhaps  he  's  outgrown  you,  and  climbed 
up  in  the  world  where  he  would  n't  care  to 
have  you  find  him." 

"  No,  indeed,  suh,"  she  replied,  "  Sam  am' 
dat  kin'  er  man.  He  wuz  good  ter  me,  Sam 
wuz,  but  he  wuz  n'  much  good  ter  nobody 
e'se,  fer  he  wuz  one  er  de  triflin'es'  han's  on 
de  plantation.  I  'spec's  ter  haf  ter  suppo't 
'im  w'en  I  fin'  'im,  fer  he  nebber  would  work 
'less'n  he  had  ter.  But  den  he  wuz  free,  an' 
he  did  n'  git  no  pay  fer  his  work,  an'  I  don' 
blame  'im  much.  Mebbe  he 's  done  better 
sence  he  run  erway,  but  I  ain'  'spectin'  much." 

"  You  may  have  passed  him  on  the  street 
a  hundred  times  during  the  twenty-five  years, 
and  not  have  known  him ;  time  works  great 
changes." 

She  smiled  incredulously.     "  I  'd  know  'im 


16  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

'mongs'  a  hund'ed  men.  Fer  dey  wuz  n'  no 
yuther  merlatter  man  like  my  man  Sam,  an' 
I  could  n'  be  mistook.  I  's  toted  his  picture 
roun'  wid  me  twenty-five  years." 

"  May  I  see  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ryder.  "  It 
might  help  me  to  remember  whether  I  have 
seen  the  original." 

As  she  drew  a  small  parcel  from  her  bosom 
he  saw  that  it  was  fastened  to  a  string  that 
went  around  her  neck.  Removing  several 
wrappers,  she  brought  to  light  an  old- 
fashioned  daguerreotype  in  a  black  case. 
He  looked  long  and  intently  at  the  portrait. 
It  was  faded  with  time,  but  the  features  were 
still  distinct,  and  it  was  easy  to  see  what  man- 
ner of  man  it  had  represented. 

He  closed  the  case,  and  with  a  slow  move- 
ment handed  it  back  to  her. 

"  I  don't  know  of  any  man  in  town  who 
goes  by  that  name,"  he  said,  "  nor  have  I 
heard  of  any  one  making  such  inquiries.  But 
if  you  will  leave  me  your  address,  I  will  give 
the  matter  some  attention,  and  if  I  find  out 
anything  I  will  let  you  know." 

She  gave  him  the  number  of  a  house  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  went  away,  after  thanking 
him  warmly. 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS    YOUTH  17 

He  wrote  the  address  on  the  fly-leaf  of 
the  volume  of  Tennyson,  and,  when  she  had 
gone,  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking-  after 
her  curiously.  As  she  walked  down  the  street 
with  mincing  step,  he  saw  several  persons 
whom  she  passed  turn  and  look  back  at  her 
with  a  smile  of  kindly  amusement.  When 
she  had  turned  the  corner,  he  went  upstairs 
to  his  bedroom,  and  stood  for  a  long  time  be- 
fore the  mirror  of  his  dressing-case,  gazing 
thoughtfully  at  the  reflection  of  his  own  face. 

ni 

At  eight  o'clock  the  ballroom  was  a  blaze 
of  light  and  the  guests  had  begun  to  as- 
semble ;  for  there  was  a  literary  programme 
and  some  routine  business  of  the  society  to 
be  gone  through  with  before  the  dancing. 
A  black  servant  in  evening  dress  waited  at 
the  door  and  directed  the  guests  to  the  dress- 
ing-rooms. 

The  occasion  was  long  memorable  among 
the  colored  people  of  the  city ;  not  alone  for 
the  dress  and  display,  but  for  the  high  aver- 
age of  intelligence  and  culture  that  distin- 
guished the   gathering   as  a   whole.     There 


18  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS    YOUTH 

were  a  number  of  school-teachers,  several 
young  doctors,  three  or  four  lawyers,  some 
professional  singers,  an  editor,  a  lieutenant 
in  the  United  States  army  spending  his  fur- 
lough in  the  city,  and  others  in  various  polite 
callings ;  these  were  colored,  though  most  of 
them  would  not  have  attracted  even  a  casual 
glance  because  of  any  marked  difference  from 
white  people.  Most  of  the  ladies  were  in 
evening  costume,  and  dress  coats  and  dan- 
cing pumps  were  the  rule  among  the  men.  A 
band  of  string  music,  stationed  in  an  alcove 
behind  a  row  of  palms,  played  popular  airs 
while  the  guests  were  gathering. 

The  dancing  began  at  half  past  nine.  At 
eleven  o'clock  supper  was  served.  Mr.  Ryder 
had  left  the  ballroom  some  little  time  before 
the  intermission,  but  reappeared  at  the  supper- 
table.  The  spread  was  worthy  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  the  guests  did  full  justice  to  it. 
When  the  coffee  had  been  served,  the  toast- 
master,  Mr.  Solomon  Sadler,  rapped  for  order. 
He  made  a  brief  introductory  speech,  compli- 
menting host  and  guests,  and  then  presented 
in  their  order  the  toasts  of  the  evening.  They 
were  responded  to  with  a  very  fair  display  of 
after-dinner  wit. 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS    YOUTH  19 

"  The  last  toast,"  said  the  toast-master, 
when  he  reached  the  end  of  the  list,  "  is  one 
which  must  appeal  to  us  all.  There  is  no  one 
of  us  of  the  sterner  sex  who  is  not  at  some 
time  dependent  upon  woman,  —  in  infancy 
for  protection,  in  manhood  for  companion- 
ship, in  old  age  for  care  and  comforting.  Our 
good  host  has  been  trying  to  live  alone,  but 
the  fair  faces  I  see  around  me  to-night  prove 
that  he  too  is  largely  dependent  upon  the 
gentler  sex  for  most  that  makes  life  worth 
living,  —  the  society  and  love  of  friends,  — 
and  rumor  is  at  fault  if  he  does  not  soon  yield 
entire  subjection  to  one  of  them.  Mr.  Ryder 
will  now  respond  to  the  toast,  —  The  Ladies." 

There  was  a  pensive  look  in  Mr.  Ryder's 
eyes  as  he  took  the  floor  and  adjusted  his  eye- 
glasses. He  began  by  speaking  of  woman  as 
the  gift  of  Heaven  to  man,  and  after  some 
general  observations  on  the  relations  of  the 
sexes  he  said :  "  But  perhaps  the  quality  which 
most  distinguishes  woman  is  her  fidelity  and 
devotion  to  those  she  loves.  History  is  full 
of  examples,  but  has  recorded  none  more 
striking  than  one  which  only  to-day  came 
under  my  notice." 

He  then  related,  simply  but  effectively,  the 


20  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

story  told  by  his  visitor  of  the  afternoon.  He 
gave  it  in  the  same  soft  dialect,  which  came 
readily  to  his  lips,  while  the  company  listened 
attentively  and  sympathetically.  For  the 
story  had  awakened  a  responsive  thrill  in 
many  hearts.  There  were  some  present  who 
had  seen,  and  others  who  had  heard  their 
fathers  and  grandfathers  tell,  the  wrongs  and 
sufferings  of  this  past  generation,  and  all  of 
them  still  felt,  in  their  darker  moments,  the 
shadow  hanging  over  them.  Mr.  Ryder  went 
on :  — 

"  Such  devotion  and  confidence  are  rare 
even  among  women.  There  are  many  who 
would  have  searched  a  year,  some  who  would 
have  waited  five  years,  a  few  who  might 
have  hoped  ten  years ;  but  for  twenty-five 
years  this  woman  has  retained  her  affection 
for  and  her  faith  in  a  man  she  has  not  seen 
or  heard  of  in  all  that  time. 

"  She  came  to  me  to-day  in  the  hope  that  I 
might  be  able  to  help  her  find  this  long-lost 
husband.  And  when  she  was  gone  I  gave  my 
fancy  rein,  and  imagined  a  case  I  will  put  to 
you. 

"Suppose  that  this  husband,  soon  after  his 
escape,  had  learned  that  his  wife  had  been 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  21 

sold  away,  and  that  such  inquiries  as  he  could 
make  brought  no  information  of  her  where- 
abouts. Suppose  that  he  was  young,  and  she 
much  older  than  he ;  that  he  was  light,  and 
she  was  black;  that  their  marriage  was  a 
slave  marriage,  and  legally  binding  only  if 
they  chose  to  make  it  so  after  the  war.  Sup- 
pose, too,  that  he  made  his  way  to  the  North, 
as  some  of  us  have  done,  and  there,  where  he 
had  larger  opportunities,  had  improved  them, 
and  had  in  the  course  of  all  these  years  grown 
to  be  as  different  from  the  ignorant  boy  who 
ran  away  from  fear  of  slavery  as  the  day  is 
from  the  night.  Suppose,  even,  that  he  had 
qualified  himself,  by  industry,  by  thrift,  and 
by  study,  to  win  the  friendship  and  be  con- 
sidered worthy  the  society  of  such  people  as 
these  I  see  around  me  to-night,  gracing  my 
board  and  filling  my  heart  with  gladness ; 
for  I  am  old  enough  to  remember  the  day 
when  such  a  gathering  would  not  have  been 
possible  in  this  land.  Suppose,  too,  that,  as 
the  years  went  by,  this  man's  memory  of  the 
past  grew  more  and  more  indistinct,  until  at 
last  it  was  rarely,  except  in  his  dreams,  that 
any  image  of  this  bygone  period  rose  before 
his  mind.     And  then  suppose  that  accident 


22  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

should  bring  to  his  knowledge  the  fact  that 
the  wife  of  his  youth,  the  wife  he  had  left 
behind  him,  —  not  one  who  had  walked  by 
his  side  and  kept  pace  with  him  in  his  upward 
struggle,  but  one  upon  whom  advancing 
years  and  a  laborious  life  had  set  their  mark, 
—  was  alive  and  seeking  him,  but  that  he 
was  absolutely  safe  from  recognition  or  dis- 
covery, unless  he  chose  to  reveal  himself. 
My  friends,  what  would  the  man  do  ?  I  will 
presume  that  he  was  one  who  loved  honor, 
and  tried  to  deal  justly  with  all  men.  I  will 
even  carry  the  case  further,  and  suppose  that 
perhaps  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  another, 
whom  he  had  hoped  to  call  his  own.  What 
would  he  do,  or  rather  what  ought  he  to  do, 
in  such  a  crisis  of  a  lifetime  ? 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  might  hesitate, 
and  I  imagined  that  I  was  an  old  friend,  a 
near  friend,  and  that  he  had  come  to  me  for 
advice  ;  and  I  argued  the  case  with  him.  I 
tried  to  discuss  it  impartially.  After  we  had 
looked  upon  the  matter  from  every  point  of 
view,  I  said  to  him,  in  words  that  we  all 
know :  — 

4  This  above  all:  to  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man.' 


THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH  23 

Then,  finally,  I  put  the  question  to  him, '  Shall 
you  acknowledge  her  ? ' 

"  And  now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  friends 
and  companions,  I  ask  you,  what  should  he 
have  done  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  Mr.  Ryder's  voice 
that  stirred  the  hearts  of  those  who  sat  around 
him.  It  suggested  more  than  mere  sympathy 
with  an  imaginary  situation  ;  it  seemed  rather 
in  the  nature  of  a  personal  appeal.  It  was 
observed,  too,  that  his  look  rested  more  espe- 
cially upon  Mrs.  Dixon,  with  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  renunciation  and  inquiry. 

She  had  listened,  with  parted  lips  and 
streaming  eyes.  She  was  the  first  to  speak  : 
"  He  should  have  acknowledged  her." 

"Yes,"  they  all  echoed,  "he  should  have 
acknowledged  her." 

"  My  friends  and  companions,"  responded 
Mr.  Ryder,  "  I  thank  you,  one  and  all.  It 
is  the  answer  I  expected,  for  I  knew  your 
hearts." 

He  turned  and  walked  toward  the  closed 
door  of  an  adjoining  room,  while  every  eye 
followed  him  in  wondering  curiosity.  He 
came  back  in  a  moment,  leading  by  the  hand 
his  visitor  of  the  afternoon,  who  stood  startled 


24  THE   WIFE  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

and  trembling  at  the  sudden  plunge  into  this 
scene  of  brilliant  gayety.  She  was  neatly 
dressed  in  gray,  and  wore  the  white  cap  of 
an  elderly  woman. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen/'  he  said,  "  this  is 
the  woman,  and  I  am  the  man,  whose  story  I 
have  told  you.  Permit  me  to  introduce  to 
you  the  wife  of  my  youth." 


HER  VIRGINIA  MAMMY 


The  pianist  had  struck  up  a  lively  two-step, 
and  soon  the  floor  was  covered  with  couples, 
each  turning  on  its  own  axis,  and  all  revolving 
around  a  common  centre,  in  obedience  per- 
haps to  the  same  law  of  motion  that  governs 
the  planetary  systems.  The  dancing-hall  was 
a  long  room,  with  a  waxed  floor  that  glistened 
with  the  reflection  of  the  lights  from  the 
chandeliers.  The  walls  were  hung  in  paper 
of  blue  and  white,  above  a  varnished  hard 
wood  wainscoting ;  the  monotony  of  surface 
being  broken  by  numerous  windows  draped 
with  curtains  of  dotted  muslin,  and  by  occa- 
sional engravings  and  colored  pictures  repre- 
senting the  dances  of  various  nations,  judi- 
ciously selected.  The  rows  of  chairs  along 
the  two  sides  of  the  room  were  left  unoc- 
cupied by  the  time  the  music  was  well  under 
way,  for  the  pianist,  a  tall  colored  woman 
with  long  fingers  and  a  muscular  wrist,  played 


26  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

with  a  verve  and  a  swing  that  set  the  feet  of 
the  listeners  involuntarily  in  motion. 

The  dance  was  sure  to  occupy  the  class  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  least,  and  the  little 
dancing-mistress  took  the  opportunity  to  slip 
away  to  her  own  sitting-room,  which  was  on 
the  same  floor  of  the  block,  for  a  few  minutes 
of  rest.  Her  day  had  been  a  hard  one. 
There  had  been  a  matinee  at  two  o'clock,  a 
children's  class  at  four,  and  at  eight  o'clock 
the  class  now  on  the  floor  had  assembled. 

When  she  reached  the  sitting-room  she 
gave  a  start  of  pleasure.  A  young  man  rose 
at  her  entrance,  and  advanced  with  both 
hands  extended  —  a  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
fair-haired  young  man,  with  a  frank  and 
kindly  countenance,  now  lit  up  with  the  ani- 
mation of  pleasure.  He  seemed  about  twenty- 
six  or  twenty-seven  years  old.  His  face  was 
of  the  type  one  instinctively  associates  with 
intellect  and  character,  and  it  gave  the  im- 
pression, besides,  of  that  intangible  some- 
thing which  we  call  race.  He  was  neatly 
and  carefully  dressed,  though  his  clothing  was 
not  without  indications  that  he  found  it  neces- 
sary or  expedient  to  practice  economy. 

"  Good-evening,  Clara,"  he  said,  taking  her 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  27 

hands  in  his  ;  "  I  've  been  waiting  for  you  five 
minutes.  I  supposed  you  would  be  in,  but  if 
you  had  been  a  moment  later  I  was  going  to 
the  hall  to  look  you  up.  You  seem  tired  to- 
night," he  added,  drawing  her  nearer  to  him 
and  scanning  her  features  at  short  range. 
"  This  work  is  too  hard  ;  you  are  not  fitted 
for  it.     When  are  you  going  to  give  it  up  ?  " 

"  The  season  is  almost  over,"  she  answered, 
"  and  then  I  shall  stop  for  the  summer." 

He  drew  her  closer  still  and  kissed  her  lov- 
ingly. "  Tell  me,  Clara,"  he  said,  looking 
down  into  her  face,  —  he  was  at  least  a  foot 
taller  than  she,  —  "  when  I  am  to  have  my 
answer." 

"  Will  you  take  the  answer  you  can  get  to- 
night ?  "  she  asked  with  a  wan  smile. 

"  I  will  take  but  one  answer,  Clara.  But 
do  not  make  me  wait  too  long  for  that.  Why, 
just  think  of  it !  I  have  known  you  for  six 
months." 

"  That  is  an  extremely  long  time,"  said 
Clara,  as  they  sat  down  side  by  side. 

"  It  has  been  an  age,"  he  rejoined.  "  For 
a  fortnight  of  it,  too,  which  seems  longer 
than  all  the  rest,  I  have  been  waiting  for  my 
answer.     I  am  turning  gray  under  the  sus- 


28  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

pense.  Seriously,  Clara  dear,  what  shall  it  be? 
or  rather,  when  shall  it  be  ?  for  to  the  other 
question  there  is  but  one  answer  possible." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  which  slowly  filled 
with  tears.  She  repulsed  him  gently  as  he 
bent  over  to  kiss  them  away. 

"  You  know  I  love  you,  John,  and  why  I 
do  not  say  what  you  wish.  You  must  give 
me  a  little  more  time  to  make  up  my  mind  be- 
fore I  can  consent  to  burden  you  with  a  name- 
less wife,  one  who  does  not  know  who  her 
mother  was  "  — 

"  She  was  a  good  woman,  and  beautiful,  if 
you  are  at  all  like  her." 

"  Or  her  father  "  — 

-•  He  was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  if  you 
inherited  from  him  your  mind  or  your  man- 
ners." 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  say  that,  and  I  try  to 
believe  it.  But  it  is  a  serious  matter ;  it  is 
a  dreadful  thing  to  have  no  name." 

"  You  are  known  by  a  worthy  one,  which 
was  freely  given  you,  and  is  legally  yours." 

"  I  know  —  and  I  am  grateful  for  it.  After 
all,  though,  it  is  not  my  real  name ;  and  since 
I  have  learned  that  it  was  not,  it  seems  like  a 
garment  —  something  external,  accessory,  and 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  29 

not  a  part  of  myself.  It  does  not  mean  what 
one's  own  name  would  signify." 

"  Take  mine,  Clara,  and  make  it  yours  ;  I 
lay  it  at  your  feet.  Some  honored  men  have 
borne  it." 

"  Ah  yes,  and  that  is  what  makes  my  posi- 
tion the  harder.  Your  great-grandfather  was 
governor  of  Connecticut." 

"  I  have  heard  my  mother  say  so." 

"  And  one  of  your  ancestors  came  over  in 
the  Mayflower." 

"  In  some  capacity  —  I  have  never  been 
quite  clear  whether  as  ship's  cook  or  before 
the  mast." 

"  Now  you  are  insincere,  John  ;  but  you 
cannot  deceive  me.  You  never  spoke  in  that 
way  about  your  ancestors  until  you  learned 
that  I  had  none.  I  know  you  are  proud  of 
them,  and  that  the  memory  of  the  governor 
and  the  judge  and  the  Harvard  professor  and 
the  Mayflower  pilgrim  makes  you  strive  to 
excel,  in  order  to  prove  yourself  worthy  of 
them." 

"  It  did  until  I  met  you,  Clara.  Now  the 
one  inspiration  of  my  life  is  the  hope  to  make 
you  mine." 

"  And  your  profession  ?  " 


30  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

"  It  will  furnish  me  the  means  to  take  you 
out  of  this ;  you  are  not  fit  for  toil." 

"  And  your  book  —  your  treatise  that  is  to 
make  you  famous  ?  " 

"I  have  worked  twice  as  hard  on  it  and 
accomplished  twice  as  much  since  I  have 
hoped  that  you  might  share  my  success." 

"  Oh !  if  I  but  knew  the  truth  ! "  she 
sighed,  "  or  could  find  it  out !  I  realize  that 
I  am  absurd,  that  I  ought  to  be  happy.  I 
love  my  parents  —  my  foster-parents  —  dearly. 
I  owe  them  everything.  Mother  —  poor,  dear 
mother !  —  could  not  have  loved  me  better 
or  cared  for  me  more  faithfully  had  I  been 
her  own  child.  Yet  —  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
it  —  I  always  felt  that  I  was  not  like  them, 
that  there  was  a  subtle  difference  between  us. 
They  were  contented  in  prosperity,  resigned 
in  misfortune  ;  I  was  ever  restless,  and  filled 
with  vague  ambitions.  They  were  good,  but 
dull.  They  loved  me,  but  they  never  said  so. 
I  feel  that  there  is  warmer,  richer  blood  cours- 
ing in  my  veins  than  the  placid  stream  that 
crept  through  theirs." 

"  There  will  never  be  any  such  people  to 
me  as  they  were,"  said  her  lover,  "for  they 
took  you  and  brought  you  up  for  me." 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  31 

"  Sometimes,"  she  went  on  dreamily,  "  I 
feel  sure  that  I  am  of  good  family,  and  the 
blood  of  my  ancestors  seems  to  call  to  me  in 
clear  and  certain  tones.  Then  again  when 
my  mood  changes,  I  am  all  at  sea  —  I  feel 
that  even  if  I  had  but  simply  to  turn  my 
hand  to  learn  who  I  am  and  whence  I  came, 
I  should  shrink  from  taking  the  step,  for  fear 
that  what  I  might  learn  would  leave  me  for- 
ever unhappy." 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
while  from  the  hall  and  down  the  corridor 
came  the  softened  strains  of  music,  "  put 
aside  these  unwholesome  fancies.  Your  past 
is  shrouded  in  mystery.  Take  my  name,  as 
you  have  taken  my  love,  and  I  '11  make  your 
future  so  happy  that  you  won't  have  time  to 
think  of  the  past.  What  are  a  lot  of  musty, 
mouldy  old  grandfathers,  compared  with  life 
and  love  and  happiness  ?  It 's  hardly  good 
form  to  mention  one's  ancestors  nowadays, 
and  what 's  the  use  of  them  at  all  if  one 
can't  boast  of  them  ?  " 

"  It 's  all  very  well  of  you  to  talk  that  way," 
she  rejoined.  "  But  suppose  you  should 
marry  me,  and  when  you  become  famous  and 
rich,  and  patients   flock  to  your  office,  and 


32  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

fashionable  people  to  your  home,  and  every 
one  wants  to  know  who  you  are  and  whence 
you  came,  you  '11  be  obliged  to  bring  out  the 
governor,  and  the  judge,  and  the  rest  of  them. 
If  you  should  refrain,  in  order  to  forestall 
embarrassing  inquiries  about  my  ancestry,  I 
should  have  deprived  you  of  something  you 
are  entitled  to,  something  which  has  a  real 
social  value.  And  when  people  found  out 
all  about  you,  as  they  eventually  would  from 
some  source,  they  would  want  to  know  —  we 
Americans  are  a  curious  people  —  who  your 
wife  was,  and  you  could  only  say  "  — 

"  The  best  and  sweetest  woman  on  earth, 
whom  I  love  unspeakably." 

"  You  know  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  You 
could  only  say  —  a  Miss  Nobody,  from  No- 
where." 

"  A  Miss  Hohlfelder,  from  Cincinnati,  the 
only  child  of  worthy  German  parents,  who  fled 
from  their  own  country  in  '49  to  escape  polit- 
ical persecution  —  an  ancestry  that  one  surely 
need  not  be  ashamed  of." 

"  No  ;  but  the  consciousness  that  it  was  not 
true  would  be  always  with  me,  poisoning  my 
mind,  and  darkening  my  life  and  yours." 

"  Your  views  of  life  are  entirely  too  tragic, 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  33 

Clara,"  the  young  man  argued  soothingly. 
"  We  are  all  worms  of  the  dust,  and  if  we 
go  back  far  enough,  each  of  us  has  had  millions 
of  ancestors  ;  peasants  and  serfs,  most  of  them ; 
thieves,  murderers,  and  vagabonds,  many  of 
them,  no  doubt ;  and  therefore  the  best  of  us 
have  but  little  to  boast  of.  Yet  we  are  all 
made  after  God's  own  image,  and  formed  by 
his  hand,  for  his  ends ;  and  therefore  not  to 
be  lightly  despised,  even  the  humblest  of  us, 
least  of  all  by  ourselves.  For  the  past  we  can 
claim  no  credit,  for  those  who  made  it  died 
with  it.     Our  destiny  lies  in  the  future." 

"  Yes,"  she  sighed,  "  I  know  all  that.  But 
I  am  not  like  you.  A  woman  is  not  like  a 
man  ;  she  cannot  lose  herself  in  theories  and 
generalizations.  And  there  are  tests  that  even 
all  your  philosophy  could  not  endure.  Sup- 
pose you  should  marry  me,  and  then  some 
time,  by  the  merest  accident,  you  should  learn 
that  my  origin  was  the  worst  it  could  be  — 
that  I  not  only  had  no  name,  but  was  not 
entitled  to  one." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it,"  he  said,  "  and  from 
what  we  do  know  of  your  history  it  is  hardly 
possible.  If  I  learned  it,  I  should  forget  it, 
unless,   perchance,   it    should   enhance   your 


34  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

value  in  my  eyes,  by  stamping  you  as  a  rare 
work  of  nature,  an  exception  to  the  law  of 
heredity,  a  triumph  of  pure  beauty  and  good- 
ness over  the  grosser  limitations  of  matter. 
I  cannot  imagine,  now  that  I  know  you, 
anything  that  could  make  me  love  you  less. 
I  would  marry  you  just  the  same  —  even 
if  you  were  one  of  your  dancing-class  to- 
night." 

"  I  must  go  back  to  them,"  said  Clara,  as 
the  music  ceased. 

"  My  answer,"  he  urged,  "  give  me  my 
answer ! " 

"  Not  to-night,  John,"  she  pleaded.  "  Grant 
me  a  little  longer  time  to  make  up  my  mind 
—  for  your  sake." 

"  Not  for  my  sake,  Clara,  no." 

"  Well —  for  mine."  She  let  him  take  her 
in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  again. 

"  I  have  a  patient  yet  to  see  to-night,"  he 
said  as  he  went  out.  "If  I  am  not  detained 
too  long,  I  may  come  back  this  way  —  if  I  see 
the  lights  in  the  hall  still  burning.  Do  not 
wonder  if  I  ask  you  again  for  my  answer, 
for  I  shall  be  unhappy  until  I  get  it." 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  35 

II 

A  stranger  entering  the  hall  with  Miss 
Hohlf elder  would  have  seen,  at  first  glance, 
only  a  company  of  well-dressed  people,  with 
nothing  to  specially  distinguish  them  from 
ordinary  humanity  in  temperate  climates. 
After  the  eye  had  rested  for  a  moment  and 
begun  to  separate  the  mass  into  its  compo- 
nent parts,  one  or  two  dark  faces  would 
have  arrested  its  attention  ;  and  with  the  sug- 
gestion thus  offered,  a  closer  inspection  would 
have  revealed  that  they  were  nearly  all  a 
little  less  than  white.  With  most  of  them 
this  fact  would  not  have  been  noticed,  while 
they  were  alone  or  in  company  with  one  an- 
other, though  if  a  fair  white  person  had  gone 
among  them  it  would  perhaps  have  been  more 
apparent.  From  the  few  who  were  undis- 
tinguishable  from  pure  white,  the  colors  ran 
down  the  scale  by  minute  gradations  to  the 
two  or  three  brown  faces  at  the  other  ex- 
tremity. 

It  was  Miss  Hohlfelder's  first  colored  class. 
She  had  been  somewhat  startled  when  first 
asked  to  take  it.  No  person  of  color  had  ever 
applied  to  her  for  lessons ;  and  while  a  woman 


36  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

of  that  race  had  played  the  piano  for  her  for 
several  months,  she  had  never  thought  of 
colored  people  as  possible  pupils.  So  when 
she  was  asked  if  she  would  take  a  class  of 
twenty  or  thirty,  she  had  hesitated,  and 
begged  for  time  to  consider  the  application. 
She  knew  that  several  of  the  more  fashion- 
able dancing-schools  tabooed  all  pupils,  singly 
or  in  classes,  who  labored  under  social  disabili- 
ties —  and  this  included  the  people  of  at  least 
one  other  race  who  were  vastly  farther  along 
in  the  world  than  the  colored  people  of  the 
community  where  Miss  Hohlfelder  lived. 
Personally  she  had  no  such  prejudice,  except 
perhaps  a  little  shrinking  at  the  thought  of 
personal  contact  with  the  dark  faces  of  whom 
Americans  always  think  when  "  colored  peo- 
ple "  are  spoken  of.  Again,  a  class  of  forty 
pnpils  was  not  to  be  despised,  for  she  taught 
for  money,  which  was  equally  current  and 
desirable,  regardless  of  its  color.  She  had 
consulted  her  foster-parents,  and  after  them 
her  lover.  Her  foster-parents,  who  were  Ger- 
man-born, and  had  never  become  thoroughly 
Americanized,  saw  no  objection.  As  for  her 
lover,  he  was  indifferent. 

"  Do  as  you  please,"   he  said.     "  It  may 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  87 

drive  away  some  other  pupils.  If  it  should 
break  up  the  business  entirely,  perhaps  you 
might  be  willing  to  give  me  a  chance  so 
much  the  sooner." 

She  mentioned  the  matter  to  one  or  two 
other  friends,  who  expressed  conflicting  opin- 
ions. She  decided  at  length  to  take  the  class, 
and  take  the  consequences. 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  be  either  right  or 
kind  to  refuse  them  for  any  such  reason,  and 
I  don't  believe  I  shall  lose  anything  by  it." 

She  was  somewhat  surprised,  and  pleasantly 
so,  when  her  class  came  together  for  their 
first  lesson,  at  not  finding  them  darker  and 
more  uncouth.  Her  pupils  were  mostly  peo- 
ple whom  she  would  have  passed  on  the  street 
without  a  second  glance,  and  among  them 
were  several  whom  she  had  known  by  sight 
for  years,  but  had  never  dreamed  of  as  being 
colored  people.  Their  manners  were  good, 
they  dressed  quietly  and  as  a  rule  with  good 
taste,  avoiding  rather  than  choosing  bright 
colors  and  striking  combinations  —  whether 
from  natural  preference,  or  because  of  a 
slightly  morbid  shrinking  from  criticism,  of 
course  she  could  not  say.  Among  them,  the 
dancing-mistress  soon  learned,  there  were  law- 


38  BEE    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

yers  and  doctors,  teachers,  telegraph  operators, 
clerks,  milliners  and  dressmakers,  students  of 
the  local  college  and  scientific  school,  and, 
somewhat  to  her  awe  at  the  first  meeting, 
even  a  member  of  the  legislature.  They  were 
mostly  young,  although  a  few  light  -  hearted 
older  people  joined  the  class,  as  much  for 
company  as  for  the  dancing. 

"  Of  course,  Miss  Hohlfelder,"  explained 
Mr.  Solomon  Sadler,  to  whom  the  teacher  had 
paid  a  compliment  on  the  quality  of  the  class, 
"  the  more  advanced  of  us  are  not  numerous 
enough  to  make  the  fine  distinctions  that  are 
possible  among  white  people  ;  and  of  course 
as  we  rise  in  life  we  can't  get  entirely  away 
from  our  brothers  and  our  sisters  and  our 
cousins,  who  don't  always  keep  abreast  of  us. 
We  do,  however,  draw  certain  lines  of  charac- 
ter and  manners  and  occupation.  You  see 
the  sort  of  people  we  are.  Of  course  we  have 
no  prejudice  against  color,  and  we  regard  all 
labor  as  honorable,  provided  a  man  does  the 
best  he  can.  But  we  must  have  standards 
that  will  give  our  people  -  something  to 
aspire  to." 

The  class  was  not  a  difficult  one,  as  many 
of   the   members   were   already   fairly   good 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  39 

dancers.  Indeed  the  class  had  been  formed 
as  much  for  pleasure  as  for  instruction. 
Music  and  hall  rent  and  a  knowledge  of  the 
latest  dances  could  be  obtained  cheaper  in 
this  way  than  in  any  other.  The  pupils  had 
made  rapid  progress,  displaying  in  fact  a 
natural  aptitude  for  rhythmic  motion,  and  a 
keen  susceptibility  to  musical  sounds.  As 
their  race  had  never  been  criticised  for  these 
characteristics,  they  gave  them  full  play,  and 
soon  developed,  most  of  them,  into  graceful 
and  indefatigable  dancers.  They  were  now 
almost  at  the  end  of  their  course,  and  this 
was  the  evening  of  the  last  lesson  but  one. 

Miss  Hohlfelder  had  remarked  to  her  lover 
more  than  once  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
teach  them.  "  They  enter  into  the  spirit  of  it 
so  thoroughly,  and  they  seem  to  enjoy  them- 
selves so  much." 

"  One  would  think,"  he  suggested,  "  that 
the  whitest  of  them  would  find  their  position 
painful  and  more  or  less  pathetic  ;  to  be  so 
white  and  yet  to  be  classed  as  black  — so  near 
and  yet  so  far." 

"  They  don't  accept  our  classification 
blindly.  They  do  not  acknowledge  any  in- 
feriority ;  they  think  they   are  a  great  deal 


40  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

better  than  any  but  the  best  white  people," 
replied  Miss  Hohlfelder.  "  And  since  they 
have  been  coming  here,  do  you  know,"  she 
went  on,  "  I  hardly  think  of  them  as  any  dif- 
ferent from  other  people.  I  feel  perfectly  at 
home  among  them." 

"  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  faith  in  one's 
self,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  a  fine  thing,  too,  to 
be  able  to  enjoy  the  passing  moment.  One  of 
your  greatest  charms  in  my  eyes,  Clara,  is  that 
in  your  lighter  moods  you  have  this  faculty. 
You  sing  because  you  love  to  sing.  You  find 
pleasure  in  dancing,  even  by  way  of  work. 
You  feel  the  joi  de  vivre  —  the  joy  of  living. 
You  are  not  always  so,  but  when  you  are  so 
I  think  you  most  delightful." 

Miss  Hohlfelder,  upqj*^entering  the  hall, 
spoke  to  the  pianist  ana  then  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  various  members  of  the  class. 
The  pianist  began  to  play  a  dreamy  Strauss 
waltz.  When  the  dance  was  well  under  way 
Miss  Hohlfelder  left  the  hall  again  and 
stepped  into  the  ladies'  dressing  -  room. 
There  was  a  woman  seated  quietly  on  a  couch 
in  a  corner,  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap. 

"  Good-evening,  Miss  Hohlfelder.  You 
do  not  seem  as  bright  as  usual  to-night." 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  41 

Miss  Hohlf elder  felt  a  sudden  yearning  for 
sympathy.  Perhaps  it  was  the  gentle  tones  of 
the  greeting ;  perhaps  the  kindly  expression 
of  the  soft  though  faded  eyes  that  were  scan- 
ning Miss  Hohlf  elder's  features.  The  woman 
was  of  the  indefinite  age  between  forty  and 
fifty.  There  were  lines  on  her  face  which,  if 
due  to  years,  might  have  carried  her  even 
past  the  half -century  mark,  but  if  caused 
by  trouble  or  ill  health  might  leave  her  some- 
what below  it.  She  was  quietly  dressed  in 
black,  and  wore  her  slightly  wavy  hair  low 
over  her  ears,  where  it  lay  naturally  in  the 
ripples  which  some  others  of  her  sex  so 
sedulously  seek  by  art.  A  little  woman,  of 
clear  olive  complexion  and  regular  features, 
her  face  was  almost  a  perfect  oval,  except  as 
time  had  marred  its  outline.  She  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  coming  to  the  class  with  some 
young  women  of  the  family  she  lived  with, 
part  boarder,  part  seamstress  and  friend  of 
the  family.  Sometimes,  while  waiting  for 
her  young  charges,  the  music  would  jar  her 
nerves,  and  she  would  seek  the  comparative 
quiet  of  the  dressing-room. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right,  Mrs.  Harper,"  replied 
the  dancing-mistress,  with  a  brave  attempt  at 


42  HEB   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

cheerfulness,  — "  just  a  little  tired,  after  a 
hard  day's  work." 

She  sat  down  on  the  couch  by  the  elder 
woman's  side.  Mrs.  Harper  took  her  hand 
and  stroked  it  gently,  and  Clara  felt  soothed 
and  quieted  by  her  touch. 

"  There  are  tears  in  your  eyes  and  trouble 
in  your  face.  I  know  it,  for  I  have  shed  the 
one  and  known  the  other.  Tell  me,  child, 
what  ails  you?  I  am  older  than  you,  and 
perhaps  I  have  learned  some  things  in  the 
hard  school  of  life  that  may  be  of  comfort  or 
service  to  you." 

Such  a  request,  coming  from  a  comparative 
stranger,  might  very  properly  have  been  re- 
sented or  lightly  parried.  But  Clara  was  not 
what  would  be  called  self-contained.  Her 
griefs  seemed  lighter  when  they  were  shared 
with  others,  even  in  spirit.  There  was  in 
her  nature  a  childish  strain  that  craved 
sympathy  and  comforting.  She  had  never 
known  —  or  if  so  it  was  only  in  a  dim  and 
dreamlike  past  —  the  tender,  brooding  care 
that  was  her  conception  of  a  mother's  love. 
Mrs.  Hohlfelder  had  been  fond  of  her  in  a 
placid  way,  and  had  given  her  every  com- 
fort and  luxury  her  means  permitted.    Clara's 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  43 

ideal  of  maternal  love  had  been  of  another 
and  more  romantic  type ;  she  had  thought  of 
a  fond,  impulsive  mother,  to  whose  bosom 
she  could  fly  when  in  trouble  or  distress,  and 
to  whom  she  could  communicate  her  sorrows 
and  trials ;  who  would  dry  her  tears  and 
soothe  her  with  caresses.  Now,  when  even 
her  kind  foster-mother  was  gone,  she  felt  still 
more  the  need  of  sympathy  and  companion- 
ship with  her  own  sex  ;  and  when  this  little 
Mrs.  Harper  spoke  to  her  so  gently,  she  felt 
her  heart  respond  instinctively. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Harper,"  replied  Clara  with  a 
sigh,  "  I  am  in  trouble,  but  it  is  trouble  that 
you  nor  any  one  else  can  heal." 

"  You  do  not  know,  child.  A  simple 
remedy  can  sometimes  cure  a  very  grave 
complaint.  Tell  me  your  trouble,  if  it  is 
something  you  are  at  liberty  to  tell." 

"  I  have  a  story,"  said  Clara,  "  and  it  is  a 
strange  one,  —  a  story  I  have  told  to  but  one 
other  person,  one  very  dear  to  me." 

"  He  must  be  dear  to  you  indeed,  from  the 
tone  in  which  you  speak  of  him.  Your  very 
accents  breathe  love." 

"  Yes,  I  love  him,  and  if  you  saw  him  — 
perhaps  you  have  seen  him,  for  he  has  looked 


44  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

in  here  once  or  twice  (luring  the  dancing- 
lessons  — -  you  would  know  why  I  love  him. 
He  is  handsome,  he  is  learned,  he  is  ambitious, 
he  is  brave,  he  is  good ;  he  is  poor,  but  he 
will  not  always  be  so ;  and  he  loves  me,  oh,  so 
much  !  " 

The  other  woman  smiled.  "  It  is  not  so 
strange  to  love,  nor  yet  to  be  loved.  And 
all  lovers  are  handsome  and  brave  and  fond." 

"  That  is  not  all  of  my  story.  He  wants 
to  marry  me."  Clara  paused,  as  if  to  let  this 
statement  impress  itself  upon  the  other. 

"  True  lovers  always  do,"  said  the  elder 
woman. 

"  But  sometimes,  you  know,  there  are  cir- 
cumstances which  prevent  them." 

"  Ah  yes,"  murmured  the  other  reflec- 
tively, and  looking  at  the  girl  with  deeper 
interest,  "  circumstances  which  prevent  them. 
I  have  known  of  such  a  case." 

"  The  circumstance  which  prevents  us  from 
marrying  is  my  story." 

"  Tell  me  your  story,  child,  and  perhaps,  if 
I  cannot  help  you  otherwise,  I  can  tell  you 
one  that  will  make  yours  seem  less  sad." 

"  You  know  me,"  said  the  young  woman, 
"  as  Miss  Hohlf  elder ;  but  that  is  not  actu- 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  45 

ally  my  name.  In  fact  I  do  not  know  my 
real  name,  for  I  am  not  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hohlfelder,  but  only  an  adopted 
child.  While  Mrs.  Hohlf elder  lived,  I  never 
knew  that  I  was  not  her  child.  I  knew  I  was 
very  different  from  her  and  father,  —  I  mean 
Mr.  Hohlfelder.  I  knew  they  were  fair  and 
I  was  dark;  they  were  stout  and  I  was  slen- 
der ;  they  were  slow  and  I  was  quick.  But 
of  course  I  never  dreamed  of  the  true  reason 
of  this  difference.  When  mother  —  Mrs. 
Hohlfelder  —  died,  I  found  among-  her  things 
one  day  a  little  packet,  carefully  wrapped  up, 
containing  a  child's  slip  and  some  trinkets. 
The  paper  wrapper  of  the  packet  bore  an  in- 
scription that  awakened  my  curiosity.  I 
asked  father  Hohlfelder  whose  the  things  had 
been,  and  then  for  the  first  time  I  learned 
my  real  story. 

"  I  was  not  their  own  daughter,  he  stated, 
but  an  adopted  child.  Twenty-three  years 
ago,  when  he  had  lived  in  St.  Louis,  a  steam- 
boat explosion  had  occurred  up  the  river,  and 
on  a  piece  of  wreckage  floating  down  stream, 
a  girl  baby  had  been  found.  There  was 
nothing:  on  the  child  to  give  a  hint  of  its 
home  or  parentage ;  and  no  one  came  to  claim 


46  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

it,  though  the  fact  that  a  child  had  been 
found  was  advertised  all  along  the  river. 
It  was  believed  that  the  infant's  parents  must 
have  perished  in  the  wreck,  and  certainly  no 
one  of  those  who  were  saved  could  identify 
the  child.  There  had  been  a  passenger  list 
on  board  the  steamer,  but  the  list,  with  the 
officer  who  kept  it,  had  been  lost  in  the  acci- 
dent. The  child  was  turned  over  to  an  or- 
phan asylum,  from  which  within  a  year  it 
was  adopted  by  the  two  kind-hearted  and 
childless  German  people  who  brought  it  up 
as  their  own.     I  was  that  child." 

The  woman  seated  by  Clara's  side  had 
listened  with  strained  attention.  "  Did  you 
learn  the  name  of  the  steamboat  ?  "  she  asked 
quietly,  but  quickly,  when  Clara  paused. 

"  The  Pride  of  St.  Louis,"  answered  Clara. 
She  did  not  look  at  Mrs.  Harper,  but  was 
gazing  dreamily  toward  the  front,  and  there- 
fore did  not  see  the  expression  that  sprang 
into  the  other's  face,  —  a  look  in  which  hope 
struggled  with  fear,  and  yearning  love  with 
both,  —  nor  the  strong  effort  with  which 
Mrs.  Harper  controlled  herself  and  moved  not 
one  muscle  while  the  other  went  on. 

"  I   was   never    sought,"  Clara   continued, 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  47 

"and  the  good  people  who  brought  me  up 
gave  me  every  care.  Father  and  mother  — 
I  can  never  train  my  tongue  to  call  them  any- 
thing else  —  were  very  good  to  me.  When 
they  adopted  me  they  were  poor ;  he  was  a 
pharmacist  with  a  small  shop.  Later  on  he 
moved  to  Cincinnati,  where  he  made  and  sold 
a  popular  '  patent '  medicine  and  amassed  a 
fortune.  Then  I  went  to  a  fashionable  school, 
was  taught  French,  and  deportment,  and  dan- 
cing. Father  Hohlf elder  made  some  bad 
investments,  and  lost  most  of  his  money.  The 
patent  medicine  fell  off  in  popularity.  A 
year  or  two  ago  we  came  to  this  city  to  live. 
Father  bought  this  block  and  opened  the 
little  drug  store  below.  We  moved  into  the 
rooms  upstairs.  The  business  was  poor,  and 
I  felt  that  I  ought  to  do  something  to  earn 
money  and  help  support  the  family.  I  could 
dance ;  we  had  this  hall,  and  it  was  not  rented 
all  the  time,  so  I  opened  a  dancing-school." 

"  Tell  me,  child,"  said  the  other  woman, 
with  restrained  eagerness,  "what  were  the 
things  found  upon  you  when  you  were  taken 
from  the  river  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl,  "  I  will.  But  I 
have  not  told  you  all  my  story,  for  this  is  but 


48  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

the  prelude.  About  a  year  ago  a  young  doc- 
tor rented  an  office  in  our  block.  We  met 
each  other,  at  first  only  now  and  then,  and 
afterwards  oftener ;  and  six  months  ago  he 
told  me  that  he  loved  me." 

She  paused,  and  sat  with  half  opened  lips 
and  dreamy  eyes,  looking  back  into  the  past 
six  months. 

"And  the  things  found  upon  you"  — 

"  Yes,  I  will  show  them  to  you  when  you 
have  heard  all  my  story.  He  wanted  to  marry 
me,  and  has  asked  me  every  week  since.  I  have 
told  him  that  I  love  him,  but  I  have  not  said 
I  would  marry  him.  I  don't  think  it  would 
be  right  for  me  to  do  so,  unless  I  could  clear 
up  this  mystery.  I  believe  he  is  going  to  be 
great  and  rich  and  famous,  and  there  might 
come  a  time  when  he  would  be  ashamed  of 
me.  I  don't  say  that  I  shall  never  marry 
him ;  for  I  have  hoped  —  I  have  a  presenti- 
ment that  in  some  strange  way  I  shall  find 
out  who  I  am,  and  who  my  parents  were.  It 
may  be  mere  imagination  on  my  part,  but 
somehow  I  believe  it  is  more  than  that." 

"  Are  you  sure  there  was  no  mark  on  the 
things  that  were  found  upon  you?"  said  the 
elder  woman. 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  49 

"  Ah  yes,"  sighed  Clara,  "  I  am  sure,  for  I 
have  looked  at  them  a  hundred  times.  They 
tell  me  nothing,  and  yet  they  suggest  to  me 
many  things.  Come,"  she  said,  taking  the 
other  by  the  hand,  "  and  I  will  show  them 
to  you." 

She  led  the  way  along  the  hall  to  her  sit- 
ting-room, and  to  her  bedchamber  beyond. 
It  was  a  small  room  hung  with  paper  showing  a 
pattern  of  morning-glories  on  a  light  ground, 
with  dotted  muslin  curtains,  a  white  iron  bed- 
stead, a  few  prints  on  the  wall,  a  rocking- 
chair —  a  very  dainty  room.  She  went  to 
the  maple  dressing-case,  and  opened  one  of 
the  drawers. 

As  they  stood  for  a  moment,  the  mirror  re- 
flecting and  framing  their  image,  more 
than  one  point  of  resemblance  between  them 
was  emphasized.  There  was  something  of 
the  same  oval  face,  and  in  Clara's  hair  a  faint 
suggestion  of  the  wave  in  the  older  wo- 
man's ;  and  though  Clara  was  fairer  of  com- 
plexion, and  her  eyes  were  gray  and  the 
other's  black,  there  was  visible,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  momentary  excitement,  one  of 
those  indefinable  likenesses  which  are  at  times 
encountered,  —  sometimes  marking  blood  re- 


50  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

lationship,  sometimes  the  impress  of  a  common 
training;  in  one  case  perhaps  a  mere  earmark 
of  temperament,  and  in  another  the  index  of 
a  type.  Except  for  the  difference  in  color, 
one  might  imagine  that  if  the  younger  woman 
were  twenty  years  older  the  resemblance 
would  be  still  more  apparent. 

Clara  reached  her  hand  into  the  drawer 
and  drew  out  a  folded  packet,  which  she  un- 
wrapped, Mrs.  Harper  following  her  move- 
ments meanwhile  with  a  suppressed  intensity 
of  interest  which  Clara,  had  she  not  been 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts,  could  not 
have  failed  to  observe. 

When  the  last  fold  of  paper  was  removed 
there  lay  revealed  a  child's  muslin  slip.  Clara 
lifted  it  and  shook  it  gently  until  it  was  un- 
folded before  their  eyes.  The  lower  half 
was  delicately  worked  in  a  lacelike  pattern, 
revealing  an  immense  amount  of  patient 
labor. 

The  elder  woman  seized  the  slip  with  hands 
which  could  not  disguise  their  trembling. 
Scanning  the  garment  carefully,  she  seemed 
to  be  noting  the  pattern  of  the  needlework, 
and  then,  pointing  to  a  certain  spot,  ex- 
claimed :  — 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  51 

"  I  thought  so  !  I  was  sure  of  it !  Do  you 
not  see  the  letters  —  M.  S.  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  wonderful !  "  Clara  seized  the 
slip  in  turn  and  scanned  the  monogram. 
"  How  strange  that  you  should  see  that  at  once 
and  that  I  should  not  have  discovered  it, 
who  have  looked  at  it  a  hundred  times  !  And 
here,"  she  added,  opening  a  small  pack- 
age which  had  been  inclosed  in  the  other, 
"is  my  coral  necklace.  Perhaps  your  keen 
eyes  can  find  something  in  that." 

It  was  a  simple  trinket,  at  which  the  older 
woman  gave  but  a  glance  —  a  glance  that 
added  to  her  emotion. 

"  Listen,  child,"  she  said,  laying  her  trem- 
bling hand  on  the  other's  arm.  "  It  is  all 
very  strange  and  wonderful,  for  that  slip  and 
necklace,  and,  now  that  I  have  seen  them, 
your  face  and  your  voice  and  your  ways,  all 
tell  me  who  you  are.  Your  eyes  are  your 
father's  eyes,  your  voice  is  your  father's  voice. 
The  slip  was  worked  by  your  mother's  hand." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Clara,  and  for  a  moment  the 
whole  world  swam  before  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  on  the  Pride  of  St.  Louis,  and  I 
knew  your  father  —  and  your  mother." 

Clara,  pale  with  excitement,  burst  into  tears, 


52  HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

and  would  have  fallen  had  not  the  other  wo- 
man caught  her  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Harper 
placed  her  on  the  couch,  and,  seated  by  her 
side,  supported  her  head  on  her  shoulder. 
Her  hands  seemed  to  caress  the  young  woman 
with  every  touch. 

"Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me  all!"  Clara  de- 
manded, when  the  first  wave  of  emotion  had 
subsided.  "  Who  were  my  father  and  my 
mother,  and  who  am  I  ?  " 

The  elder  woman  restrained  her  emotion 
with  an  effort,  and  answered  as  composedly  as 
she  could,  — 

"  There  were  several  hundred  passengers  on 
the  Pride  of  St.  Louis  when  she  left  Cincin- 
nati on  that  fateful  day,  on  her  regular  trip 
to  New  Orleans.  Your  father  and  mother 
were  on  the  boat  —  and  I  was  on  the  boat. 
We  were  going  down  the  river,  to  take  ship 
at  New  Orleans  for  France,  a  country  which 
your  father  loved." 

"  Who  was  my  father?  "  asked  Clara.  The 
woman's  words  fell  upon  her  ear  like  water 
on  a  thirsty  soil. 

"  Your  father  was  a  Virginia  gentleman, 
and  belonged  to  one  of  the  first  families, 
the  Staffords,  of   Melton  County." 


HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY  53 

Clara  drew  herself  up  unconsciously,  and 
into  her  face  there  came  a  frank  expression 
of  pride  which  became  it  wonderfully,  setting 
off  a  beauty  that  needed  only  this  to  make  it 
all  but  perfect  of  its  type. 

"  I  knew  it  must  be  so,"  she  murmured. 
"  I  have  often  felt  it.  Blood  will  always  tell. 
And  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Your  mother  —  also  belonged  to  one  of 
the  first  families  of  Virginia,  and  in  her  veins 
flowed  some  of  the  best  blood  of  the  Old  Do- 
minion." 

"  What  was  her  maiden  name  ?  " 

"  Mary  Fairfax.  As  I  was  saying,  your 
father  was  a  Virginia  gentleman.  He  was  as 
handsome  a  man  as  ever  lived,  and  proud,  oh, 
so  proud  !  —  and  good,  and  kind.  He  was  a 
graduate  of  the  University  and  had  studied 
abroad." 

"  My  mother  —  was  she  beautiful  ?  " 

"  She  was  much  admired,  and  your  father 
loved  her  from  the  moment  he  first  saw  her. 
Your  father  came  back  from  Europe,  upon  his 
father's  sudden  death,  and  entered  upon  his 
inheritance.  But  he  had  been  away  from 
Virginia  so  long,  and  had  read  so  many  books, 
that  he  had  outgrown  his  home.     He  did  not 


54  HER   VIRGINIA   MAMMY 

believe  that  slavery  was  right,  and  one  of  the 
first  things  he  did  was  to  free  his  slaves. 
His  views  were  not  popular,  and  he  sold  out 
his  lands  a  year  before  the  war,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  moving  to  Europe." 

"  In  the  mean  time  he  had  met  and  loved 
and  married  my  mother?" 

"  In  the  mean  time  he  had  met  and  loved 
your  mother." 

"  My  mother  was  a  Virginia  belle,  was  she 
not?  " 

"  The  Fairfaxes,"  answered  Mrs.  Harper, 
"  were  the  first  of  the  first  families,  the  bluest 
of  the  blue-bloods.  The  Miss  Fairfaxes  were 
all  beautiful  and  all  social  favorites." 

"  What  did  my  father  do  then,  when  he 
had  sold  out  in  Virginia  ?  " 

"  He  went  with  your  mother  and  you  —  you 
were  then  just  a  year  old  —  to  Cincinnati, 
to  settle  up  some  business  connected  with 
his  estate.  When  he  had  completed  his 
business,  he  embarked  on  ,the  Pride  of  St. 
Louis  with  you  and  your  mother  and  a  colored 
nurse." 

"And  how  did  you  know  about  them?" 
asked  Clara. 

"  I  was  one  of  the  party.     I  was  "  — 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  55 

"  You  were  the  colored  nurse  ?  —  my 
'  niammy,'  they  would  have  called  you  in  my 
old  Virginia  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  child,  I  was  —  your  mammy.  Upon 
my  bosom  you  have  rested ;  my  breasts  once 
gave  you  nourishment ;  my  hands  once  min- 
istered to  you ;  my  arms  sheltered  you,  and 
my  heart  loved  you  and  mourned  you  like  a 
mother  loves  and  mourns  her  firstborn." 

"  Oh,  how  strange,  how  delightful ! "  ex- 
claimed Clara.  "  Now  I  understand  why  you 
clasped  me  so  tightly,  and  were  so  agitated 
when  I  told  you  my  story.  It  is  too  good 
for  me  to  believe.  I  am  of  good  blood,  of 
an  old  and  aristocratic  family.  My  presenti- 
ment has  come  true.  I  can  marry  my  lover, 
and  I  shall  owe  all  my  happiness  to  you.  How 
can  I  ever  repay  you  ?  " 

"  You  can  kiss  me,  child,  kiss  your 
mammy." 

Their  lips  met,  and  they  were  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms.  One  put  into  the  embrace 
all  of  her  new-found  joy,  the  other  all  the 
suppressed  feeling  of  the  last  half  hour,  which 
in  turn  embodied  the  unsatisfied  yearning  of 
many  years. 

The  music  had  ceased  and  the  pupils  had 


56  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

left  the  hall.  Mrs.  Harper's  charges  had  sup- 
posed her  gone,  and  had  left  for  home  with- 
out her.  But  the  two  women,  sitting  in 
Clara's  chamber,  hand  in  hand,  were  oblivious 
to  external  things  and  noticed  neither  the 
hour  nor  the  cessation  of  the  music. 

"  Why,  dear  mammy,"  said  the  young 
woman  musingly,  "  did  you  not  find  me,  and 
restore  me  to  my  people  ?  " 

"  Alas,  child  !  I  was  not  white,  and  when 
I  was  picked  up  from  the  water,  after  floating 
miles  down  the  river,  the  man  who  found  me 
kept  me  prisoner  for  a  time,  and,  there  being 
no  inquiry  for  me,  pretended  not  to  believe 
that  I  was  free,  and  took  me  down  to  New 
Orleans  and  sold  me  as  a  slave.  A  few  years 
later  the  war  set  me  free.  I  went  to  St.  Louis 
but  could  find  no  trace  of  you.  I  had  hardly 
dared  to  hope  that  a  child  had  been  saved, 
when  so  many  grown  men  and  women  had 
lost  their  lives.  I  made  such  inquiries  as  I 
could,  but  all  in  vain." 

"  Did  you  go  to  the  orphan  asylum  ?  " 

"  The  orphan  asylum  had  been  burned  and 
with  it  all  the  records.  The  war  had  scattered 
the  people  so  that  I  could  find  no  one  who 
knew  about  a  lost  child  saved  from  a  river 


HER   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  57 

wreck.  There  were  many  orphans  in  those 
days,  and  one  more  or  less  was  not  likely  to 
dwell  in  the  public  mind." 

"  Did  you  tell  my  people  in  Virginia  ?  " 

"  They,  too,  were  scattered  by  the  war. 
Your  uncles  lost  their  lives  on  the  battlefield. 
The  family  mansion  was  burned  to  the  ground. 
Your  father's  remaining  relatives  were  reduced 
to  poverty,  and  moved  away  from  Virginia." 

"  What  of  my  mother's  people  ?  " 

"  They  are  all  dead.  God  punished  them. 
They  did  not  love  your  father,  and  did  not 
wish  him  to  marry  your  mother.  They  helped 
to  drive  him  to  his  death." 

"  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  then,  without 
kith  or  kin,"  murmured  Clara,  "  and  yet, 
strange  to  say,  I  am  happy.  If  I  had  known 
my  people  and  lost  them,  I  should  be  sad. 
They  are  gone,  but  they  have  left  me  their 
name  and  their  blood.  I  would  weep  for  my 
poor  father  and  mother  if  I  were  not  so  glad." 

Just  then  some  one  struck  a  chord  upon  the 
piano  in  the  hall,  and  the  sudden  breaking  of 
the  stillness  recalled  Clara's  attention  to  the 
lateness  of  the  hour. 

"  I  had  forgotten  about  the  class,"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  I  must  go  and  attend  to  them." 


58  HER    VIRGINIA  MAMMY 

They  walked  along  the  corridor  and  entered 
the  hall.  Dr.  Winthrop  was  seated  at  the 
piano,  drumming'  idly  on  the  keys. 

"  I  did  not  know  where  you  had  gone/'  he 
said.  "  I  knew  you  would  be  around,  of 
course,  since  the  lights  were  not  out,  and  so  I 
came  in  here  to  wait  for  you." 

"  Listen,  John,  I  have  a  wonderful  story  to 
tell  you." 

Then  she  told  him  Mrs.  Harper's  story. 
He  listened  attentively  and  sympathetically, 
at  certain  points  taking  his  eyes  from  Clara's 
face  and  glancing  keenly  at  Mrs.  Harper,  who 
was  listening  intently.  As  he  looked  from 
one  to  the  other  he  noticed  the  resemblance 
between  them,  and  something  in  his  expression 
caused  Mrs.  Harper's  eyes  to  fall,  and  then 
glance  up  appealingly. 

"  And  now,"  said  Clara,  "  I  am  happy.  I 
know  my  name.  I  am  a  Virginia  Stafford. 
I  belong  to  one,  yes,  to  two  of  what  were  the 
first  families  of  Virginia.  John,  my  family  is 
as  good  as  yours.  If  I  remember  my  history 
correctly,  the  Cavaliers  looked  down  upon  the 
Roundheads." 

"  I  admit  my  inferiority,"  he  replied.  "  If 
you  are  happy  I  am  glad." 


SEE   VIRGINIA  MAMMY  59 

"  Clara  Stafford,"  mused  the  girl.  "  It  is 
a  pretty  name." 

"  You  will  never  have  to  use  it,"  her  lover 
declared,  "  for  now  you  will  take  mine." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  nothing  left  of  all  that 
I  have  found  "  — 

"  Except  your  husband,"  asserted  Dr.  Win- 
throp,  putting  his  arm  around  her,  with  an  air 
of  assured  possession. 

Mrs.  Harper  was  looking  at  them  with 
moistened  eyes  in  which  joy  and  sorrow,  love 
and  gratitude,  were  strangely  blended.  Clara 
put  out  her  hand  to  her  impulsively. 

"  And  my  mammy,"  she  cried,  "  my  dear 
Virginia  mammy." 


THE   SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

Branson  County,  North  Carolina,  is  in  a 
sequestered  district  of  one  of  the  staidest 
and  most  conservative  States  of  the  Union. 
Society  in  Branson  County  is  almost  primitive 
in  its  simplicity.  Most  of  the  white  people 
own  the  farms  they  till,  and  even  before  the 
war  there  were  no  very  wealthy  families  to 
force  their  neighbors,  by  comparison,  into  the 
category  of  "  poor  whites." 

To  Branson  County,  as  to  most  rural  com- 
munities in  the  South,  the  war  is  the  one  his- 
torical event  that  overshadows  all  others.  It 
is  the  era  from  which  all  local  chronicles 
are  dated,  —  births,  deaths,  marriages,  storms, 
freshets.  No  description  of  the  life  of  any 
Southern  community  would  be  perfect  that 
failed  to  emphasize  the  all  pervading  influ- 
ence of  the  great  conflict. 

Yet  the  fierce  tide  of  war  that  had 
rushed  through  the  cities  and  along  the  great 
highways  of  the  country  had  comparatively 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  61 

speaking  but  slightly  disturbed  the  sluggish 
current  of  life  in  this  region,  remote  from 
railroads  and  navigable  streams.  To  the 
north  in  Virginia,  to  the  west  in  Tennessee, 
and  all  along  the  seaboard  the  war  had 
raged ;  but  the  thunder  of  its  cannon  had 
not  disturbed  the  echoes  of  Branson  County, 
where  the  loudest  sounds  heard  were  the 
crack  of  some  hunter's  rifle,  the  baying  of 
some  deep-mouthed  hound,  or  the  yodel  of 
some  tuneful  negro  on  his  way  through  the 
pine  forest.  To  the  east,  Sherman's  army 
had  passed  on  its  march  to  the  sea  ;  but 
no  straggling  band  of  "  bummers  "  had  pene- 
trated the  confines  of  Branson  County.  The 
war,  it  is  true,  had  robbed  the  county  of  the 
flower  of  its  young  manhood  ;  but  the  burden 
of  taxation,  the  doubt  and  uncertainty  of  the 
conflict,  and  the  sting  of  ultimate  defeat,  had 
been  borne  by  the  people  with  an  apathy 
that  robbed  misfortune  of  half  its  sharpness. 

The  nearest  approach  to  town  life  afforded 
by  Branson  County  is  found  in  the  little  vil- 
lage of  Troy,  the  county  seat,  a  hamlet  with 
a  population  of  four  or  five  hundred. 

Ten  years  make  little  difference  in  the 
appearance  of  these  remote  Southern  towns. 


62  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

If  a  railroad  is  built  through  one  of  them,  it 
infuses  some  enterprise ;  the  social  corpse  is 
galvanized  by  the  fresh  blood  of  civilization 
that  pulses  along  the  farthest  ramifications  of 
our  great  system  of  commercial  highways. 
At  the  period  of  which  I  write,  no  railroad 
had  come  to  Troy.  If  a  traveler,  accustomed 
to  the  bustling  life  of  cities,  could  have  rid- 
den through  Troy  on  a  summer  day,  he 
might  easily  have  fancied  himself  in  a  de- 
serted village.  Around  him  he  would  have 
seen  weather-beaten  houses,  innocent  of  paint, 
the  shingled  roofs  in  many  instances  covered 
with  a  rich  growth  of  moss.  Here  and  there 
he  would  have  met  a  razor-backed  hog  lazily 
rooting  his  way  along  the  principal  thorough- 
fare; and  more  than  once  be  would  probably 
have  had  to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  some 
yellow  dog,  dozing  away  the  hours  in  the 
ardent  sunshine,  and  reluctantly  yielding  up 
his  place  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  road. 

On  Saturdays  the  village  presented  a  some- 
what livelier  appearance,  and  the  shade  trees 
around  the  court  house  square  and  along 
Front  Street  served  as  hitching-posts  for  a 
goodly  number  of  horses  and  mules  and 
stunted  oxen,  belonging   to  the  farmer-folk 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  63 

who  had  come  in  to  trade  at  the  two  or  three 
local  stores. 

A  murder  was  a  rare  event  in  Branson 
County.  Every  well-informed  citizen  could 
tell  the  number  of  homicides  committed  in 
the  county  for  fifty  years  back,  and  whether 
the  slayer,  in  any  given  instance,  had  escaped, 
either  by  flight  or  acquittal,  or  had  suffered 
the  penalty  of  the  law.  So,  when  it  became 
known  in  Troy  early  one  Friday  morning  in 
summer,  about  ten  years  after  the  war,  that 
old  Captain  Walker,  who  had  served  in  Mex- 
ico under  Scott,  and  had  left  an  arm  on  the 
field  of  Gettysburg,  had  been  foully  murdered 
during  the  night,  there  was  intense  excite- 
ment in  the  village.  Business  was  practically 
suspended,  and  the  citizens  gathered  in  little 
groups  to  discuss  the  murder,  and  speculate 
upon  the  identity  of  the  murderer.  It  tran- 
spired from  testimony  at  the  coroner's  inquest, 
held  during  the  morning,  that  a  strange  mu- 
latto had  been  seen  going  in  the  direction  of 
Captain  Walker's  house  the  night  before,  and 
had  been  met  going  away  from  Troy  early 
Friday  morning,  by  a  farmer  on  his  way  to 
town.  Other  circumstances  seemed  to  con- 
nect the  stranger  with  the  crime.    The  sheriff 


64  THE  SHERIFFS  CHILDREN 

organized  a  posse  to  search  for  him,  and  early 
in  the  evening,  when  most  of  the  citizens  of 
Troy  were  at  supper,  the  suspected  man  was 
brought  in  and  lodged  in  the  county  jail. 

By  the  following  morning  the  news  of  the 
capture  had  spread  to  the  farthest  limits  of 
the  county.  A  much  larger  number  of  peo- 
ple than  usual  came  to  town  that  Saturday,  — 
bearded  men  in  straw  hats  and  blue  homespun 
shirts,  and  butternut  trousers  of  great  ampli- 
tude of  material  and  vagueness  of  outline ; 
women  in  homespun  frocks  and  slat-bonnets, 
with  faces  as  expressionless  as  the  dreary 
sandhills  which  gave  them  a  meagre  suste- 
nance. 

The  murder  was  almost  the  sole  topic  of 
conversation.  A  steady  stream  of  curious 
observers  visited  the  house  of  mourning,  and 
gazed  upon  the  rugged  face  of  the  old  veteran, 
now  stiff  and  cold  in  death  ;  and  more  than 
one  eye  dropped  a  tear  at  the  remembrance  of 
the  cheery  smile,  and  the  joke  —  sometimes 
superannuated,  generally  feeble,  but  always 
good-natured  —  with  which  the  captain  had 
been  wont  to  greet  his  acquaintances.  There 
was  a  growing  sentiment  of  anger  among 
these  stern  men,    toward  the  murderer  who 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  65 

had  thus  cut  down  their  friend,  and  a  strong 
feeling  that  ordinary  justice  was  too  slight  a 
punishment  for  such  a  crime. 

Toward  noon  there  was  an  informal  gather- 
ing of  citizens  in  Dan  Tyson's  store. 

"I  hear  it  'lowed  that  Square  Kyahtah's 
too  sick  ter  hoi'  co'te  this  evenin',"  said  one, 
"  an'  that  the  purlim'nary  hearin'  '11  haf  ter 
go  over  'tel  nex'  week." 

A  look  of  disappointment  went  round  the 
crowd. 

"  Hit  's  the  durndes',  meanes'  murder  ever 
committed  in  this  caounty,"  said  another,  with 
moody  emphasis. 

"  I  s'pose  the  nigger  'lowed  the  Cap'n  had 
some  greenbacks,"  observed  a  third  speaker. 

"  The  Cap'n,"  said  another,  with  an  air  of 
superior  information,  "  has  left  two  bairls  of 
Confedrit  money,  which  he  'spected  'ud  be 
good  some  day  er  nuther." 

This  statement  gave  rise  to  a  discussion  of 
the  speculative  value  of  Confederate  money  ; 
but  in  a  little  while  the  conversation  returned 
to  the  murder. 

"  Hangin'  air  too  good  fer  the  murderer," 
said  one  ;  "  he  oughter  be  burnt,  stidier  bein' 
hung." 


66  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

There  was  an  impressive  pause  at  this  point, 
during  which  a  jug  of  moonlight  whiskey  went 
the  round  of  the  crowd. 

"  Well,"  said  a  round-shouldered  farmer, 
who,  in  spite  of  his  peaceable  expression  and 
faded  gray  eye,  was  known  to  have  been  one 
of  the  most  daring  followers  of  a  rebel 
guerrilla  chieftain,  "  what  air  yer  gwine  ter  do 
about  it?  Ef  you  fellers  air  gwine  ter  set 
down  an'  let  a  wuthless  nigger  kill  the  bes' 
white  man  in  Branson,  an'  not  say  nuthin'  ner 
do  nuthin',  I'll  move  outen  the  caounty." 

This  speech  gave  tone  and  direction  to  the 
rest  of  the  conversation.  Whether  the  fear 
of  losing  the  round-shouldered  farmer  oper- 
ated to  bring  about  the  result  or  not  is  im- 
material to  this  narrative  ;  but,  at  all  events, 
the  crowd  decided  to  lynch  the  negro.  They 
agreed  that  this  was  the  least  that  could  be 
done  to  avenge  the  death  of  their  murdered 
friend,  and  that  it  was  a  becoming  way  in 
which  to  honor  his  memory.  They  had  some 
vague  notions  of  the  majesty  of  the  law  and 
the  rights  of  the  citizen,  but  in  the  passion  of 
the  moment  these  sunk  into  oblivion  ;  a  white 
man  had  been  killed  by  a  negro. 

"  The  Cap'n  was  an  ole  sodger,"  said  one 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  67 

of  his  friends  solemnly.  "  He  '11  sleep  better 
when  he  knows  that  a  co'te-martial  has  be'n 
hilt  an'  jestice  done." 

By  agreement  the  lynchers  were  to  meet  at 
Tyson's  store  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  proceed  thence  to  the  jail,  which  was 
situated  down  the  Lumberton  Dirt  Road  (as 
the  old  turnpike  antedating  the  plank-road 
was  called),  about  half  a  mile  south  of  the 
court-house.  When  the  preliminaries  of  the 
lynching  had  been  arranged,  and  a  committee 
appointed  to  manage  the  affair,  the  crowd 
dispersed,  some  to  go  to  their  dinners,  and 
some  to  secure  recruits  for  the  lynching  party. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  to  five  o'clock,  when 
an  excited  negro,  panting  and  perspiring, 
rushed  up  to  the  back  door  of  Sheriff  Camp- 
bell's dwelling,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  jail  and  somewhat  farther  than  the 
latter  building  from  the  court-house.  A  tur- 
baned  colored  woman  came  to  the  door  in  re- 
sponse to  the  negro's  knock. 

"  Hoddy,  Sis'  Nance." 

"  Hoddy,  Brer  Sam." 

"  Is  de  shurff  in,"  inquired  the  negro. 

"  Yas,  Brer  Sam,  he  's  eatin'  his  dinner," 
was  the  answer. 


68  THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN 

"  Will  yer  ax  'im  ter  step  ter  de  do'  a  min- 
ute, Sis'  Nance  ?  " 

The  woman  went  into  the  dining-room,  and 
a  moment  later  the  sheriff  came  to  the  door. 
He  was  a  tall,  muscular  man,  of  a  ruddier 
complexion  than  is  usual  among  Southerners. 
A  pair  of  keen,  deep-set  gray  eyes  looked  out 
from  under  bushy  eyebrows,  and  about  his 
mouth  was  a  masterful  expression,  which  a 
full  beard,  once  sandy  in  color,  but  now  pro- 
fusely sprinkled  with  gray,  could  not  entirely 
conceal.  The  day  was  hot ;  the  sheriff  had 
discarded  his  coat  and  vest,  and  had  his  white 
shirt  open  at  the  throat. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Sam  ?  "  he  inquired 
of  the  negro,  who  stood  hat  in  hand,  wiping 
the  moisture  from  his  face  with  a  ragged 
shirt-sleeve. 

"  Shurff,  dey  gwine  ter  hang  de  pris'ner 
w'at  's  lock'  up  in  de  jail.  Dey  're  comin' 
dis  a-way  now.  I  wuz  layin'  down  on  a  sack 
er  corn  down  at  de  sto',  behine  a  pile  er  flour- 
bairls,  w'en  I  hearn  Doc'  Cain  en  Kunnel 
Wright  talkin'  erbout  it.  I  slip'  outen  de 
back  do',  en  run  here  as  fas'  as  I  could.  I 
hearn  you  say  down  ter  de  sto'  once't  dat 
you  would  n't  let  nobody  take  a  pris'ner  'way 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  69 

fum  you  widout  walkin'  over  yo'  dead  body, 
en  I  thought  I  'd  let  you  know  'fo'  dey  come, 
so  yer  could  pertec'  de  pris'ner." 

The  sheriff  listened  calmly,  but  his  face  grew 
firmer,  and  a  determined  gleam  lit  up  his 
gray  eyes.  His  frame  grew  more  erect,  and 
he  unconsciously  assumed  the  attitude  of  a 
soldier  who  momentarily  expects  to  meet  the 
enemy  face  to  face. 

"  Much  obliged,  Sam,"  he  answered.  "  I  '11 
protect  the  prisoner.     Who  's  coming  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  who-all  is  comin',''  replied 
the  negro.  a  Dere  's  Mistah  McSwayne,  en 
Doc'  Cain,  en  Maje'  McDonaP,  en  Kunnel 
Wright,  en  a  heap  er  yuthers.  I  wuz  so 
skeered  I  done  f  urgot  mo'  d'n  half  un  em.  I 
spec'  dey  mus'  be  mos'  here  by  dis  time,  so 
I  '11  git  outen  de  way,  f  er  I  don'  want  no- 
body fer  ter  think  I  wuz  mix'  up  in  dis  busi- 
ness." The  negro  glanced  nervously  down 
the  road  toward  the  town,  and  made  a  move- 
ment as  if  to  go  away. 

"  Won't  you  have  some  dinner  first  ? " 
asked  the  sheriff. 

The  negro  looked  longingly  in  at  the  open 
door,  and  sniffed  the  appetizing  odor  of  boiled 
pork  and  collards. 


70  THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN 

"  I  ain't  got  no  time  f er  ter  tarry,  Shurff," 
he  said,  "but  Sis'  Nance  mought  gin  me 
sump'n  I  could  kyar  in  my  han'  en  eat  on  de 
way." 

A  moment  later  Nancy  brought  him  a  huge 
sandwich  of  split  corn-pone,  with  a  thick  slice 
of  fat  bacon  inserted  between  the  halves,  and 
a  couple  of  baked  yams.  The  negro  hastily 
replaced  his  ragged  hat  on  his  head,  dropped 
the  yams  in  the  pocket  of  his  capacious  trou- 
sers, and,  taking  the  sandwich  in  his  hand, 
hurried  across  the  road  and  disappeared  in 
the  woods  beyond. 

The  sheriff  reentered  the  house,  and  put 
on  his  coat  and  hat.  He  then  took  down  a 
double-barreled  shotgun  and  loaded  it  with 
buckshot.  Filling  the  chambers  of  a  revolver 
with  fresh  cartridges,  he  slipped  it  into  the 
pocket  of  the  sack-coat  which  he  wore. 

A  comely  young  woman  in  a  calico  dress 
watched  these  proceedings  with  anxious  sur- 
prise. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  father  ? "  she 
asked.  She  had  not  heard  the  conversation 
with  the  negro. 

"  I  am  goin'  over  to  the  jail,"  responded 
the  sheriff.     "  There's  a  mob  comin'  this  way 


THE  SHERIFFS  CHILDREN  71 

to  lynch  the  nigger  we  've  got  locked  up. 
But  they  won't  do  it,"  he  added,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"  Oh,  father  !  don't  go  ! "  pleaded  the  girl, 
clinging  to  his  arm  ;  "  they'll  shoot  you  if  you 
don't  give  him  up." 

"  You  never  mind  me,  Polly,"  said  her 
father  reassuringly,  as  he  gently  unclasped 
her  hands  from  his  arm.  "  I  '11  take  care  of 
myself  and  the  prisoner,  too.  There  ain't  a 
man  in  Branson  County  that  would  shoot  me. 
Besides,  I  have  faced  fire  too  often  to  be 
scared  away  from  my  duty.  You  keep  close 
in  the  house,"  he  continued,  "  and  if  any  one 
disturbs  you  just  use  the  old  horse-pistol  in  the 
top  bureau  drawer.  It 's  a  little  old-fashioned, 
but  it  did  good  work  a  few  years  ago." 

The  young  girl  shuddered  at  this  sanguin- 
ary allusion,  but  made  no  further  objection  to 
her  father's  departure. 

The  sheriff  of  Branson  was  a  man  far 
above  the  average  of  the  community  in 
wealth,  education,  and  social  position.  His 
had  been  one  of  the  few  families  in  the 
county  that  before  the  war  had  owned  large 
estates  and  numerous  slaves.  He  had  gradu- 
ated at  the  State  University  at  Chapel  Hill, 


72  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

and  had  kept  up  some  acquaintance  with  cur- 
rent literature  and  advanced  thought.  He 
had  traveled  some  in  his  youth,  and  was 
looked  up  to  in  the  county  as  an  authority  on 
all  subjects  connected  with  the  outer  world. 
At  first  an  ardent  supporter  of  the  Union,  he 
had  opposed  the  secession  movement  in  his 
native  State  as  long  as  opposition  availed  to 
stem  the  tide  of  public  opinion.  Yielding  at 
last  to  the  force  of  circumstances,  he  had  en- 
tered the  Confederate  service  rather  late  in 
the  war,  and  served  with  distinction  through 
several  campaigns,  rising  in  time  to  the  rank 
of  colonel.  After  the  war  he  had  taken  the 
oath  of  allegiance,  and  had  been  chosen  by 
the  people  as  the  most  available  candidate  for 
the  office  of  sheriff,  to  which  he  had  been 
elected  without  opposition.  He  had  filled  the 
office  for  several  terms,  and  was  universally 
popular  with  his  constituents. 

Colonel  or  Sheriff  Campbell,  as  he  was  in- 
differently called,  as  the  military  or  civil  title 
happened  to  be  most  important  in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  person  addressing  him,  had  a  high 
sense  of  the  responsibility  attaching  to  his 
office.  He  had  sworn  to  do  his  duty  faith- 
fully, and  he   knew  what    his  duty  was,  as 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  73 

sheriff,  perhaps  more  clearly  than  he  had  ap- 
prehended it  in  other  passages  of  his  life. 
It  was,  therefore,  with  no  uncertainty  in 
regard  to  his  course  that  he  prepared  his 
weapons  and  went  over  to  the  jail.  He  had 
no  fears  for  Polly's  safety. 

The  sheriff  had  just  locked  the  heavy  front 
door  of  the  jail  behind  him  when  a  half  dozen 
horsemen,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  men  on 
foot,  came  round  a  bend  in  the  road  and 
drew  near  the  jail.  They  halted  in  front  of 
the  picket  fence  that  surrounded  the  build- 
ing, while  several  of  the  committee  of  ar- 
rangements rode  on  a  few  rods  farther  to  the 
sheriff's  house.  One  of  them  dismounted 
and  rapped  on  the  door  with  his  riding-whip. 

"  Is  the  sheriff  at  home  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"No,  he  has  just  gone  out,"  replied  Polly, 
who  had  come  to  the  door. 

"  We  want  the  jail  keys,"  he  continued. 

"  They  are  not  here,"  said  Polly.  "  The 
sheriff  has  them  himself."  Then  she  added, 
with  assumed  indifference,  "  He  is  at  the  jail 
now." 

The  man  turned  away,  and  Polly  went  into 
the  front  room,  from  which  she  peered  anx- 
iously between  the  slats  of  the  green  blinds 


74  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

of  a  window  that  looked  toward  the  jail. 
Meanwhile  the  messenger  returned  to  his 
companions  and  announced  his  discovery.  It 
looked  as  though  the  sheriff  had  learned  of 
their  design  and  was  preparing  to  resist  it. 

One  of  them  stepped  forward  and  rapped 
on  the  jail  door. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  said  the  sheriff,  from 
within. 

"  We  want  to  talk  to  you,  Sheriff,"  replied 
the  spokesman. 

There  was  a  little  wicket  in  the  door ;  this 
the  sheriff  opened,  and  answered  through  it. 

"  All  right,  boys,  talk  away.  You  are  all 
strangers  to  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  busi- 
ness you  can  have."  The  sheriff  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  recognize  anybody  in 
particular  on  such  an  occasion  ;  the  question 
of  identity  sometimes  comes  up  in  the  inves- 
tigation of  these  extra-judicial  executions. 

"  We  're  a  committee  of  citizens  and  we 
want  to  get  into  the  jail." 

"  What  for  ?  It  ain't  much  trouble  to  get 
into  jail.     Most  people  want  to  keep  out." 

The  mob  was  in  no  humor  to  appreciate 
a  joke,  and  the  sheriff's  witticism  fell  dead 
upon  an  unresponsive  audience. 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  75 

"  We  want  to  have  a  talk  with  the  nigger 
that  killed  Cap'n  Walker." 

"  You  can  talk  to  that  nigger  in  the  court- 
house, when  he 's  brought  out  for  trial.  Court 
will  be  in  session  here  next  week.  I  know 
what  you  fellows  want,  but  you  can't  get  my 
prisoner  to-day.  Do  you  want  to  take  the 
bread  out  of  a  poor  man's  mouth?  I  get 
seventy-five  cents  a  day  for  keeping  this  pris- 
oner, and  he  's  the  only  one  in  jail.  I  can't 
have  my  family  suffer  just  to  please  you 
fellows." 

One  or  two  young  men  in  the  crowd 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  Sheriff  Campbell's 
suffering  for  want  of  seventy-five  cents  a 
day ;  but  they  were  frowned  into  silence  by 
those  who  stood  near  them. 

"  Ef  yer  don't  let  us  in,"  cried  a  voice, 
"  we  '11  bu's'  the  do'  open." 

"  Bust  away,"  answered  the  sheriff,  raising 
his  voice  so  that  all  could  hear.  "But  I 
give  you  fair  warning.  The  first  man  that 
tries  it  will  be  filled  with  buckshot.  I  'm 
sheriff  of  this  county ;  I  know  my  duty,  and 
I  mean  to  do  it." 

"  What 's  the  use  of  kicking,  Sheriff  ?  " 
argued  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  mob.    "  The 


76  THE  SHERIFFS   CHILDREN 

nigger  is  sure  to  hang  anyhow ;  he  richly 
deserves  it ;  and  we  've  got  to  do  something 
to  teach  the  niggers  their  places,  or  white 
people  won't  be  able  to  live  in  the  county." 

"  There  's  no  use  talking,  boys,"  responded 
the  sheriff.  "  I  'm  a  white  man  outside,  but 
in  this  jail  I  'm  sheriff  ;  and  if  this  nigger  's 
to  be  hung  in  this  county,  I  propose  to  do 
the  hanging.  So  you  fellows  might  as  well 
right-about-face,  and  march  back  to  Troy. 
You  Ve  had  a  pleasant  trip,  and  the  exercise 
will  be  good  for  you.  You  know  me.  I  've 
got  powder  and  ball,  and  I  've  faced  fire 
before  now,  with  nothing  between  me  and 
the  enemy,  and  I  don't  mean  to  surrender 
this  jail  while  I  'm  able  to  shoot."  Having 
thus  announced  his  determination,  the  sheriff 
closed  and  fastened  the  wicket,  and  looked 
around  for  the  best  position  from  which  to 
defend  the  building. 

The  crowd  drew  off  a  little,  and  the  leaders 
conversed  together  in  low  tones. 

The  Branson  County  jail  was  a  small,  two- 
story  brick  building,  strongly  constructed, 
with  no  attempt  at  architectural  ornamenta- 
tion. Each  story  was  divided  into  two  large 
cells  by  a  passage  running  from  front  to  rear. 


"WE'LL  BITS'  THE   DO'   OPEN' 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  77 

A  grated  iron  door  gave  entrance  from  the 
passage  to  each  of  the  four  cells.  The  jail 
seldom  had  many  prisoners  in  it,  and  the 
lower  windows  had  been  boarded  up.  When 
the  sheriff  had  closed  the  wicket,  he  ascended 
the  steep  wooden  stairs  to  the  upper  floor. 
There  was  no  window  at  the  front  of  the  upper 
passage,  and  the  most  available  position  from 
which  to  watch  the  movements  of  the  crowd 
below  was  the  front  window  of  the  cell  occu- 
pied by  the  solitary  prisoner. 

The  sheriff  unlocked  the  door  and  entered 
the  cell.  The  prisoner  was  crouched  in  a  cor- 
ner, his  yellow  face,  blanched  with  terror, 
looking  ghastly  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
room.  A  cold  perspiration  had  gathered  on 
his  forehead,  and  his  teeth  were  chattering 
with  affright. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Sheriff,"  he  murmured 
hoarsely,  "  don't  let  'em  lynch  me  ;  I  did  n't 
kill  the  old  man." 

The  sheriff  glanced  at  the  cowering  wretch 
with  a  look  of  mingled  contempt  and  loathing. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said  sharply.  "  You  will 
probably  be  hung  sooner  or  later,  but  it  shall 
not  be  to-day,  if  I  can  help  it.  I  '11  unlock 
your  fetters,  and  if  I  can't  hold  the  jail,  you  'U 


78  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

have  to  make  the  best  fight  you  can.  If  I  'm 
shot,  I  '11  consider  my  responsibility  at  an 
end." 

There  were  iron  fetters  on  the  prisoner's 
ankles,  and  handcuffs  on  his  wrists.  These 
the  sheriff  unlocked,  and  they  fell  clanking 
to  the  floor. 

"  Keep  back  from  the  window,"  said  the 
sheriff.    "  They  might  shoot  if  they  saw  you." 

The  sheriff  drew  toward  the  window  a  pine 
bench  which  formed  a  part  of  the  scanty  fur- 
niture of  the  cell,  and  laid  his  revolver  upon 
it.  Then  he  took  his  gun  in  hand,  and  took 
his  stand  at  the  side  of  the  window  where  he 
could  with  least  exposure  of  himself  watch  the 
movements  of  the  crowd  below. 

The  lynchers  had  not  anticipated  any  deter- 
mined resistance.  Of  course  they  had  looked 
for  a  formal  protest,  and  perhaps  a  sufficient 
show  of  opposition  to  excuse  the  sheriff  in 
the  eye  of  any  stickler  for  legal  formalities. 
They  had  not  however  come  prepared  to  fight 
a  battle,  and  no  one  of  them  seemed  will- 
ing to  lead  an  attack  upon  the  jail.  The 
leaders  of  the  party  conferred  together  with  a 
good  deal  of  animated  gesticulation,  which 
was  visible  to  the  sheriff  from  his  outlook, 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  79 

though  the  distance  was  too  great  for  him  to 
hear  what  was  said.  At  length  one  of  them 
broke  away  from  the  group,  and  rode  back  to 
the  main  body  of  the  lynchers,  who  were  rest- 
lessly awaiting  orders. 

"  Well,  boys,"  said  the  messenger,  "  we  '11 
have  to  let  it  go  for  the  present.  The  sheriff 
says  he  '11  shoot,  and  he 's  got  the  drop  on 
us  this  time.  There  ain't  any  of  us  that 
want  to  follow  Cap'n  Walker  jest  yet.  Be- 
sides, the  sheriff  is  a  good  fellow,  and  we  don't 
want  to  hurt  'im.  But,"  he  added,  as  if  to 
reassure  the  crowd,  which  began  to  show  signs 
of  disappointment,  "  the  nigger  might  as  well 
say  his  prayers,  for  he  ain't  got  long  to  live." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  dissent  from  the 
mob,  and  several  voices  insisted  that  an  attack 
be  made  on  the  jail.  But  pacific  counsels 
finally  prevailed,  and  the  mob  sullenly  with- 
drew. 

The  sheriff  stood  at  the  window  until  they 
had  disappeared  around  the  bend  in  the  road. 
He  did  not  relax  his  watchfulness  when  the 
last  one  was  out  of  sight.  Their  withdrawal 
might  be  a  mere  feint,  to  be  followed  by  a 
further  attempt.  So  closely,  indeed,  was  his 
attention  drawn  to  the  outside,  that  he  neither 


80  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

saw  nor  heard  the  prisoner  creep  stealthily 
across  the  floor,  reach  out  his  hand  and  secure 
the  revolver  which  lay  on  the  bench  behind 
the  sheriff,  and  creep  as  noiselessly  back  to  his 
place  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 

A  moment  after  the  last  of  the  lynching 
party  had  disappeared  there  was  a  shot  fired 
from  the  woods  across  the  road;  a  bullet 
whistled  by  the  window  and  buried  itself  in 
the  wooden  casing  a  few  inches  from  where 
the  sheriff  was  standing.  Quick  as  thought, 
with  the  instinct  born  of  a  semi-guerrilla  army 
experience,  he  raised  his  gun  and  fired  twice 
at  the  point  from  which  a  faint  puff  of  smoke 
showed  the  hostile  bullet  to  have  been  sent. 
He  stood  a  moment  watching,  and  then  rested 
his  gun  against  the  window,  and  reached  be- 
hind him  mechanically  for  the  other  weapon. 
It  was  not  on  the  bench.  As  the  sheriff  real- 
ized this  fact,  he  turned  his  head  and  looked 
into  the  muzzle  of  the  revolver. 

"  Stay  where  you  are,  Sheriff,"  said  the 
prisoner,  his  eyes  glistening,  his  face  almost 
ruddy  with  excitement. 

The  sheriff  mentally  cursed  his  own  care- 
lessness for  alio  win  g  him  to  be  caught  in  such 
a  predicament.    He  had  not  expected  anything 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  81 

of  the  kind.  He  had  relied  on  the  negro's 
cowardice  and  subordination  in  the  presence 
of  an  armed  white  man  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  sheriff  was  a  brave  man,  but  realized  that 
the  prisoner  had  him  at  an  immense  disadvan- 
tage. The  two  men  stood  thus  for  a  moment, 
fighting  a  harmless  duel  with  their  eyes. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ?  "  asked 
the  sheriff  with  apparent  calmness. 

"  To  get  away,  of  course,"  said  the  pris- 
oner, in  a  tone  which  caused  the  sheriff  to  look 
at  him  more  closely,  and  with  an  involuntary 
feeling  of  apprehension  ;  if  the  man  was  not 
mad,  he  was  in  a  state  of  mind  akin  to  mad- 
ness, and  quite  as  dangerous.  The  sheriff  felt 
that  he  must  speak  the  prisoner  fair,  and  watch 
for  a  chance  to  turn  the  tables  on  him.  The 
keen-eyed,  desperate  man  before  him  was  a 
different  being  altogether  from  the  groveling 
wretch  who  had  begged  so  piteously  for  life 
a  few  minutes  before. 

At  length  the  sheriff  spoke  :  — 

"Is  this  your  gratitude  to  me  for  saving 
your  life  at  the  risk  of  my  own  ?  If  I  had 
not  done  so,  you  would  now  be  swinging  from 
the  limb  of  some  neighboring  tree." 

"  True,"  said  the  prisoner,  "  you  saved  my 


82  THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN 

life,  but  for  bow  long?  When  you  came  in, 
you  said  Court  would  sit  next  week.  When 
the  crowd  went  away  they  said  I  had  not  long 
to  live.     It  is  merely  a  choice  of  two  ropes." 

"  While  there  's  life  there  's  hope,"  replied 
the  sheriff.  He  uttered  this  commonplace 
mechanically,  while  his  brain  was  busy  in  try- 
ing to  think  out  some  way  of  escape.  "  If 
you  are  innocent  you  can  prove  it." 

The  mulatto  kept  his  eye  upon  the  sheriff. 
"  I  did  n't  kill  the  old  man,"  he  replied ; 
"but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  clear  myself. 
I  was  at  his  house  at  nine  o'clock.  I  stole 
from  it  the  coat  that  was  on  my  back  when  I 
was  taken.  I  would  be  convicted,  even  with 
a  fair  trial,  unless  the  real  murderer  were  dis- 
covered beforehand." 

The  sheriff  knew  this  only  too  well.  While 
he  was  thinking  what  argument  next  to  use, 
the  prisoner  continued  :  — 

"  Throw  me  the  keys  —  no,  unlock  the 
door." 

The  sheriff  stood  a  moment  irresolute. 
The  mulatto's  eye  glittered  ominously.  The 
sheriff  crossed  the  room  and  unlocked  the 
door  leading  into  the  passage. 

"  Now  go  down  and  unlock  the  outside 
door." 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  83 

The  heart  of  the  sheriff  leaped  within  him. 
Perhaps  he  might  make  a  dash  for  liberty, 
and  gain  the  outside.  He  descended  the 
narrow  stairs,  the  prisoner  keeping  close  be- 
hind him. 

The  sheriff  inserted  the  huge  iron  key  into 
the  lock.  The  rusty  bolt  yielded  slowly.  It 
still  remained  for  him  to  pull  the  door  open. 

"  Stop  !  "  thundered  the  mulatto,  who 
seemed  to  divine  the  sheriff's  purpose.  "Move 
a  muscle,  and  I  '11  blow  your  brains  out." 

The  sheriff  obeyed ;  he  realized  that  his 
chance  had  not  yet  come. 

"  Now  keep  on  that  side  of  the  passage, 
and  go  back  upstairs." 

Keeping  the  sheriff  under  cover  of  the  re- 
volver, the  mulatto  followed  him  up  the  stairs. 
The  sheriff  expected  the  prisoner  to  lock  him 
into  the  cell  and  make  his  own  escape.  He 
had  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  best 
thing  he  could  do  under  the  circumstances 
was  to  submit  quietly,  and  take  his  chances 
of  recapturing  the  prisoner  after  the  alarm 
had  been  given.  The  sheriff  had  faced  death 
more  than  once  upon  the  battlefield.  A  few 
minutes  before,  well  armed,  and  with  a  brick 
wall  between  him  and  them  he  had  dared  a 


84  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

hundred  men  to  fight;  but  he  felt  instinc- 
tively that  the  desperate  man  confronting  him 
was  not  to  be  trifled  with,  and  he  was  too 
prudent  a  man  to  risk  his  life  against  such 
heavy  odds.  He  had  Polly  to  look  after,  and 
there  was  a  limit  beyond  which  devotion  to 
duty  would  be  quixotic  and  even  foolish. 

"  I  want  to  get  away,"  said  the  prisoner, 
"  and  I  don't  want  to  be  captured ;  for  if  I 
am  I  know  I  will  be  hung  on  the  spot.  I 
am  afraid,"  he  added  somewhat  reflectively, 
"  that  in  order  to  save  myself  I  shall  have  to 
kill  you." 

"  Good  God !  "  exclaimed  the  sheriff  in 
involuntary  terror ;  "  you  would  not  kill  the 
man  to  whom  you  owe  your  own  life." 

"  You  speak  more  truly  than  you  know," 
replied  the  mulatto.  "  I  indeed  owe  my  life 
to  you." 

The  sheriff  started.  He  was  capable  of 
surprise,  even  in  that  moment  of  extreme 
peril.  "  Who  are  you?  "  he  asked  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Tom,  Cicely's  son,"  returned  the  other. 
He  had  closed  the  door  and  stood  talking 
to  the  sheriff  through  the  grated  opening. 
"  Don't  you  remember  Cicely  —  Cicely  whom 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  85 

you  sold,  with  her  child,  to  the  speculator  on 
his  way  to  Alabama  ?  " 

The  sheriff  did  remember.  He  had  been 
sorry  for  it  many  a  time  since.  It  had  been 
the  old  story  of  debts,  mortgages,  and  bad 
crops.  He  had  quarreled  with  the  mother. 
The  price  offered  for  her  and  her  child  had 
been  unusually  large,  and  he  had  yielded 
to  the  combination  of  anger  and  pecuniary 
stress. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  gasped,  "  you  would 
not  murder  your  own  father  ?  " 

"  My  father  ?  "  replied  the  mulatto.  "  It 
were  well  enough  for  me  to  claim  the  relation- 
ship, but  it  comes  with  poor  grace  from  you 
to  ask  anything  by  reason  of  it.  What 
father's  duty  have  you  ever  performed  for 
me?  Did  you  give  me  your  name,  or  even 
your  protection  ?  Other  white  men  gave  their 
colored  sons  freedom  and  money,  and  sent 
them  to  the  free  States.  You  sold  me  to  the 
rice  swamps." 

"  I  at  least  gave  you  the  life  you  cling  to," 
murmured  the  sheriff. 

"  Life  ?  "  said  the  prisoner,  with  a  sarcastic 
laugh.  "  What  kind  of  a  life  ?  You  gave 
me  your  own  blood,  your  own  features,  —  no 


86  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

man  need  look  at  ns  together  twice  to  see 
that,  —  and  you  gave  me  a  black  mother. 
Poor  wretch  !  She  died  under  the  lash,  be- 
cause she  had  enough  womanhood  to  call  her 
soul  her  own.  You  gave  me  a  white  man's 
spirit,  and  you  made  me  a  slave,  and  crushed 
it  out." 

"  But  you  are  free  now,"  said  the  sheriff. 
He  had  not  doubted,  could  not  doubt,  the 
mulatto's  word.  He  knew  whose  passions 
coursed  beneath  that  swarthy  skin  and  burned 
in  the  black  eyes  opposite  his  own.  He  saw 
in  this  mulatto  what  he  himself  might  have 
become  had  not  the  safeguards  of  parental 
restraint  and  public  opinion  been  thrown 
around  him. 

"  Free  to  do  what  ?  "  replied  the  mulatto. 
"  Free  in  name,  but  despised  and  scorned  and 
set  aside  by  the  people  to  whose  race  I  belong 
far  more  than  to  my  mother's." 

"  There  are  schools,"  said  the  sheriff.  "  You 
have  been  to  school."  He  had  noticed  that 
the  mulatto  spoke  more  eloquently  and  used 
better  language  than  most  Branson  County 
people. 

"  I  have  been  to  school,  and  dreamed  when 
I  went  that    it  would  work  some  marvelous 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  87 

change  in  my  condition.  But  what  did  I 
learn  ?  I  learned  to  feel  that  no  degree  of 
learning-  or  wisdom  will  change  the  color  of 
my  skin  and  that  I  shall  always  wear  what  in 
my  own  country  is  a  badge  of  degradation. 
When  I  think  about  it  seriously  I  do  not  care 
particularly  for  such  a  life.  It  is  the  animal 
in  me,  not  the  man,  that  flees  the  gallows. 
I  owe  you  nothing,"  he  went  on,  "  and  expect 
nothing  of  you ;  and  it  would  be  no  more 
than  justice  if  I  should  avenge  upon  you  my 
mother's  wrongs  and  my  own.  But  still  I 
hate  to  shoot  you ;  I  have  never  yet  taken 
human  life  —  for  I  did  not  kill  the  old  cap- 
tain. Will  you  promise  to  give  no  alarm  and 
make  no  attempt  to  capture  me  until  morn- 
ing, if  I  do  not  shoot?" 

So  absorbed  were  the  two  men  in  their  col- 
loquy and  their  own  tumultuous  thoughts 
that  neither  of  them  had  heard  the  door  below 
move  upon  its  hinges.  Neither  of  them  had 
heard  a  light  step  come  stealthily  up  the  stairs, 
nor  seen  a  slender  form  creep  along  the  dark- 
ening passage  toward  the  mulatto. 

The  sheriff  hesitated.  The  struggle  be- 
tween  his  love  of  life  and  his  sense  of  duty 
was  a  terrific  one.     It  may  seem  strange  that 


88  THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN 

a  man  who  could  sell  his  own  child  into  slav- 
ery should  hesitate  at  such  a  moment,  when 
his  life  was  trembling  in  the  balance.  But 
the  baleful  influence  of  human  slavery  poi- 
soned the  very  fountains  of  life,  and  created 
new  standards  of  right.  The  sheriff  was  con- 
scientious ;  his  conscience  had  merely  been 
warped  by  his  environment.  Let  no  one  ask 
what  his  answer  would  have  been  j  he  was 
spared  the  necessity  of  a  decision. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  mulatto,  "  you  need  not 
promise.  I  could  not  trust  you  if  you  did. 
It  is  your  life  for  mine ;  there  is  but  one  safe 
way  for  me ;  you  must  die." 

He  raised  his  arm  to  fire,  when  there  was 
a  flash  — a  report  from  the  passage  behind 
him.  His  arm  fell  heavily  at  his  side,  and 
the  pistol  dropped  at  his  feet. 

The  sheriff  recovered  first  from  his  sur- 
prise, and  throwing  open  the  door  secured  the 
fallen  weapon.  Then  seizing  the  prisoner  he 
thrust  him  into  the  cell  and  locked  the  door 
upon  him ;  after  which  he  turned  to  Polly, 
who  leaned  half-fainting  against  the  wall,  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  father,  I  was  just  in  time  !  "  she  cried 
hysterically,  and,  wildly  sobbing,  threw  herself 
into  her  father's  arms. 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  89 

"  I  watched  until  they  all  went  away,"  she 
said.  "  I  heard  the  shot  from  the  woods  and 
I  saw  you  shoot.  Then  when  you  did  not 
come  out  I  feared  something  had  happened, 
that  perhaps  you  had  been  wounded.  I  got 
out  the  other  pistol  and  ran  over  here.  When 
I  found  the  door  open,  I  knew  something  was 
wrong,  and  when  I  heard  voices  T  crept  up- 
stairs, and  reached  the  top  just  in  time  to 
hear  him  say  he  would  kill  you.  Oh,  it  was 
a  narrow  escape  !  " 

When  she  had  grown  somewhat  calmer,  the 
sheriff  left  her  standing  there  and  went  back 
into  the  cell.  The  prisoner's  arm  was  bleed- 
in  £  from  a  flesh  wound.  His  bravado  had 
given  place  to  a  stony  apathy.  There  was 
no  sign  in  his  face  of  fear  or  disappointment 
or  feeling  of  any  kind.  The  sheriff  sent 
Polly  to  the  house  for  cloth,  and  bound  up 
the  prisoner's  wound  with  a  rude  skill  ac- 
quired during  his  army  life. 

"  I  '11  have  a  doctor  come  and  dress  the 
wound  in  the  morning,"  he  said  to  the  pris- 
oner. "  It  will  do  very  well  until  then,  if 
you  will  keep  quiet.  If  the  doctor  asks  you 
how  the  wound  was  caused,  you  can  say  that 
you  were  struck  by  the  bullet  fired  from  the 


90  THE  SHERIFFS   CHILL  REN 

woods.  It  would  do  you  no  good  to  have  ft 
known  that  you  were  shot  while  attempting 
to  escape." 

The  prisoner  uttered  no  word  of  thanks  or 
apology,  but  sat  in  sullen  silence.  When  the 
wounded  arm  had  been  bandaged,,  Polly  and 
her  father  returned  to  the  house. 

The  sheriff  was  in  an  unusually  thoughtful 
mood  that  evening.  He  put  salt  in  his  coffee 
at  supper,  and  poured  vinegar  over  his  pan- 
cakes. To  many  of  Polly's  questions  he  re- 
turned random  answers.  When  he  had  gone 
to  bed  he  lay  awake  for  several  hours. 

In  the  silent  watches  of  the  night,  when  he 
was  alone  with  God,  there  came  into  his  mind 
a  flood  of  unaccustomed  thoughts.  An  hour 
or  two  before,  standing  face  to  face  with 
death,  he  had  experienced  a  sensation  similar 
to  that  which  drowning  men  are  said  to  feel 
—  a  kind  of  clarifying  of  the  moral  faculty, 
in  which  the  veil  of  the  flesh,  with  its  obscur- 
ing passions  and  prejudices,  is  pushed  aside 
for  a  moment,  and  all  the  acts  of  one's  life 
stand  out,  in  the  clear  light  of  truth,  in  their 
correct  proportions  and  relations,  —  a  state  of 
mind  in  which  one  sees  himself  as  God  may 
be   supposed  to  see  him.     In   the    reaction 


THE  SHERIFF'S  CHILDREN  91 

following  his  rescue,  this  feeling  had  given 
place  for  a  time  to  far  different  emotions. 
But  now,  in  the  silence  of  midnight,  some- 
thing of  this  clearness  of  spirit  returned  to 
the  sheriff.  He  saw  that  he  had  owed  some 
duty  to  this  son  of  his, —  that  neither  law  nor 
custom  could  destroy  a  responsibility  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  mankind.  He  could  not 
thus,  in  the  eyes  of  God  at  least,  shake  off  the 
consequences  of  his  sin.  Had  he  never  sinned, 
this  wayward  spirit  would  never  have  come 
back  from  the  vanished  past  to  haunt  him. 
As  these  thoughts  came,  his  anger  against 
the  mulatto  died  away,  and  in  its  place  there 
sprang  up  a  great  pity.  The  hand  of  paren- 
tal authority  might  have  restrained  the  pas- 
sions he  had  seen  burning  in  the  prisoner's 
eyes  when  the  desperate  man  spoke  the  words 
which  had  seemed  to  doom  his  father  to  death. 
The  sheriff  felt  that  he  mio-ht  have  saved  this 
fiery  spirit  from  the  slough  of  slavery ;  that 
he  might  have  sent  him  to  the  free  North, 
and  given  him  there,  or  in  some  other  land, 
an  opportunity  to  turn  to  usefulness  and  honor- 
able pursuits  the  talents  that  had  run  to  crime, 
perhaps  to  madness  ;  he  might,  still  less,  have 
given  this  son  of  his  the  poor  simulacrum  of 


92  TEE  SEEBIFFS  CHILDREN 

liberty  which  men  of  his  caste  could  possess 
in  a  slave-holding  community  ;  or  least  of  all, 
but  still  something,  he  might  have  kept  the 
boy  on  the  plantation,  where  the  burdens  of 
slavery  would  have  fallen  lightly  upon  him. 

The  sheriff  recalled  his  own  youth.  He 
had  inherited  an  honored  name  to  keep  un- 
tarnished ;  he  had  had  a  future  to  make  ;  the 
picture  of  a  fair  young  bride  had  beckoned 
him  on  to  happiness.  The  poor  wretch  now 
stretched  upon  a  pallet  of  straw  between  the 
brick  walls  of  the  jail  had  had  none  of  these 
things,  —  no  name,  no  father,  no  mother  — 
in  the  true  meaning  of  motherhood,  —  and  un- 
til the  past  few  years  no  possible  future,  and 
then  one  vague  and  shadowy  in  its  outline, 
and  dependent  for  form  and  substance  upon 
the  slow  solution  of  a  problem  in  which  there 
were  many  unknown  quantities. 

From  what  he  might  have  done  to  what  he 
might  yet  do  was  an  easy  transition  for  the 
awakened  conscience  of  the  sheriff.  It  oc- 
curred to  him,  purely  as  a  hypothesis,  that  he 
might  permit  his  prisoner  to  escape  ;  but  his 
oath  of  office,  his  duty  as  sheriff,  stood  in  the 
way  of  such  a  course,  and  the  sheriff  dis- 
missed the  idea  from  his  mind.  He  could, 
however,  investigate  the  circumstances  of  the 


THE  SHERIFF'S   CHILDREN  93 

murder,  and  move  Heaven  and  earth  to  discover 
the  real  criminal,  for  he  no  longer  doubted  the 
prisoner's  innocence  ;  he  could  employ  counsel 
for  the  accused,  and  perhaps  influence  public 
opinion  in  his  favor.  An  acquittal  once 
secured,  some  plan  could  be  devised  by  which 
the  sheriff  might  in  some  degree  atone  for  his 
crime  against  this  son  of  his  —  against  society 
—  against  God. 

When  the  sheriff  had  reached  this  con- 
clusion he  fell  into  an  unquiet  slumber,  from 
which  he  awoke  late  the  next  morning:. 

He  went  over  to  the  jail  before  breakfast 
and  found  the  prisoner  lying  on  his  pallet, 
his  face  turned  to  the  wall ;  he  did  not  move 
when  the  sheriff  rattled  the  door. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  tone 
intended  to  waken  the  prisoner. 

There  was  no  response.  The  sheriff  looked 
more  keenly  at  the  recumbent  figure  ;  there 
was  an  unnatural  rigidity  about  its  attitude. 

He  hastily  unlocked  the  door  and,  entering 
the  cell,  bent  over  the  prostrate  form.  There 
was  no  sound  of  breathing ;  he  turned  the 
body  over  —  it  was  cold  and  stiff.  The  pris- 
oner had  torn  the  bandage  from  his  wound 
and  bled  to  death  during  the  night.  He  had 
evidently  been  dead  several  hours. 


A  MATTER  OF  PRINCIPLE 


"  What  our  country  needs  most  in  its  treat- 
ment of  the  race  problem/'  observed  Mr. 
Cicero  Clayton  at  one  of  the  monthly  meetings 
of  the  Blue  Vein  Society,  of  which  he  was  a 
prominent  member,  "is  a  clearer  conception 
of  the  brotherhood  of  man." 

The  same  sentiment  in  much  the  same 
words  had  often  fallen  from  Mr.  Clayton's 
lips,  —  so  often,  in  fact,  that  the  younger 
members  of  the  society  sometimes  spoke  of 
him  —  among:  themselves  of  course  —  as 
"  Brotherhood  Clayton."  The  sobriquet 
derived  its  point  from  the  application  he 
made  of  the  principle  involved  in  this  oft- 
repeated  proposition. 

The  fundamental  article  of  Mr.  Clayton's 
social  creed  was  that  he  himself  was  not  a 
neofro. 

"  I  know,"  he  would  say,  "  that  the  white 
people  lump  us  all  together  as  negroes,  and 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  95 

condemn  us  all  to  the  same  social  ostracism. 
But  I  don't  accept  this  classification,  for  my 
part,  and  I  imagine  that,  as  the  chief  party 
in  interest,  I  have  a  right  to  my  opinion. 
People  who  belong  by  half  or  more  of  their 
blood  to  the  most  virile  and  progressive  race 
of  modern  times  have  as  much  right  to  call 
themselves  white  as  others  have  to  call  them 
negroes." 

Mr.  Clayton  spoke  warmly,  for  he  was  well 
informed,  and  had  thought  much  upon  the 
subject ;  too  much,  indeed,  for  he  had  not 
been  able  to  escape  entirely  the  tendency  of 
too  much  concentration  upon  one  subject  to 
make  even  the  clearest  minds  morbid. 

"  Of  course  we  can't  enforce  our  claims,  or 
protect  ourselves  from  being  robbed  of  our 
birthright ;  but  we  can  at  least  have  princi- 
ples, and  try  to  live  up  to  them  the  best  we 
can.  If  we  are  not  accepted  as  white,  we  can 
at  any  rate  make  it  clear  that  we  object  to 
being  called  black.  Our  protest  cannot  fail 
in  time  to  impress  itself  upon  the  better  class 
of  white  people ;  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
loves  justice,  and  will  eventually  do  it,  where 
it  does  not  conflict  with  their  own  interests." 

Whether  or  not  the  fact  that  Mr.  Clayton 


96  A  MATTEB   OF  PRINCIPLE 

meant  no  sarcasm,  and  was  conscious  of  no 
inconsistency  in  this  eulogy,  tended  to  estab- 
lish the  racial  identity  he  claimed  may  safely 
be  left  to  the  discerning  reader. 

In  living  up  to  his  creed  Mr.  Clayton  de- 
clined to  associate  to  any  considerable  extent 
with  black  people.  This  was  sometimes  a 
little  inconvenient,  and  occasionally  involved 
a  sacrifice  of  some  pleasure  for  himself  and 
his  family,  because  they  would  not  attend  en- 
tertainments where  many  black  people  were 
likely  to  be  present.  But  they  had  a  social 
refuge  in  a  little  society  of  people  like  them- 
selves ;  they  attended,  too,  a  church,  of  which 
nearly  all  the  members  were  white,  and  they 
were  connected  with  a  number  of  the  religious 
and  benevolent  associations  open  to  all  good 
citizens,  where  they  came  into  contact  with 
the  better  class  of  white  people,  and  were 
treated,  in  their  capacity  of  members,  with 
a  courtesy  and  consideration  scarcely  differ- 
ent from  that  accorded  to  other  citizens. 

Mr.  Clayton's  racial  theory  was  not  only 
logical  enough,  but  was  in  his  own  case  backed 
up  by  substantial  arguments.  He  had  begun 
life  with  a  small  patrimony,  and  had  invested 
his  money  in  a  restaurant,  which  by  careful 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  97 

and  judicious  attention  had  grown  from  a 
cheap  eating-house  into  the  most  popular  and 
successful  confectionery  and  catering  estab- 
lishment in  Groveland.  His  business  occupied 
a  double  store  on  Oakwood  Avenue.  He 
owned  houses  and  lots,  and  stocks  and  bonds, 
had  good  credit  at  the  banks,  and  lived  in  a 
style  befitting  his  income  and  business  stand- 
ing. In  person  he  was  of  olive  complexion, 
with  slightly  curly  hair.  His  features  ap- 
proached the  Cuban  or  Latin- American  type 
rather  than  the  familiar  broad  characteris- 
tics of  the  mulatto,  this  suggestion  of  some- 
thing foreign  being  heightened  by  a  Vandyke 
beard  and  a  carefully  waxed  and  pointed 
mustache.  When  he  walked  to  church  on 
Sunday  mornings  with  his  daughter  Alice, 
they  were  a  couple  of  such  striking  appearance 
as  surely  to  attract  attention. 

Miss  Alice  Clayton  was  queen  of  her  social 
set.  She  was  young,  she  was  handsome.  She 
was  nearly  white;  she  frankly  confessed  her 
sorrow  that  she  was  not  entirely  so.  She  was 
accomplished  and  amiable,  dressed  in  good 
taste,  and  had  for  her  father  by  all  odds  the 
richest  colored  man  —  the  term  is  used  with 
apologies  to  Mr.  Clayton,  explaining  that  it 


98  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

does  not  necessarily  mean  a  negro  —  in  Grove- 
land.  So  pronounced  was  her  superiority  that 
really  she  had  but  one  social  rival  worthy  of 
the  name,  —  Miss  Lura  Watkins,  whose  fa- 
ther kept  a  prosperous  livery  stable  and  lived 
in  almost  as  good  style  as  the  Claytons.  Miss 
Watkins,  while  good-looking  enough,  was  not 
so  young  nor  quite  so  white  as  Miss  Clayton. 
She  was  popular,  however,  among  their  mu- 
tual acquaintances,  and  there  was  a  good- 
natured  race  between  the  two  as  to  which 
should  make  the  first  and  best  marriage. 

Marriages  among  Miss  Clayton's  set  were 
serious  affairs.  Of  course  marriage  is  always 
a  serious  matter,  whether  it  be  a  success  or  a 
failure,  and  there  are  those  who  believe  that 
any  marriage  is  better  than  no  marriage.  But 
among  Miss  Clayton's  friends  and  associates 
matrimony  took  on  an  added  seriousness  be- 
cause of  the  very  narrow  limits  within  which 
it  could  take  place.  Miss  Clayton  and  her 
friends,  by  reason  of  their  assumed  superiority 
to  black  people,  or  perhaps  as  much  by  rea- 
son of  a  somewhat  morbid  shrinking  from  the 
curiosity  manifested  toward  married  people  of 
strongly  contrasting  colors,  would  not  marry 
black  men,  and  except  in  rare  instances  white 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  99 

men  would  not  marry  them.  They  were 
therefore  restricted  for  a  choice  to  the  young 
men  of  their  own  complexion.  But  these, 
unfortunately  for  the  girls,  had  a  wider  choice. 
In  any  State  where  the  laws  permit  freedom 
of  the  marriage  contract,  a  man,  by  virtue  of 
his  sex,  can  find  a  wife  of  whatever  complexion 
he  prefers ;  of  course  he  must  not  always  ask 
too  much  in  other  respects,  for  most  women 
like  to  better  their  social  position  when  they 
marry.  To  the  number  thus  lost  by  "  going 
on  the  other  side,"  as  the  phrase  went,  add 
the  worthless  contingent  whom  no  self-respect- 
ing woman  would  marry,  and  the  choice  was 
still  further  restricted ;  so  that  it  had  become 
fashionable,  when  the  supply  of  eligible  men 
ran  short,  for  those  of  Miss  Clayton's  set  who 
could  afford  it  to  go  traveling,  ostensibly  for 
pleasure,  but  with  the  serious  hope  that  they 
might  meet  their  fate  away  from  home. 

Miss  Clayton  had  perhaps  a  larger  option 
than  any  of  her  associates.  Among  such  men 
as  there  were  she  could  have  taken  her  choice. 
Her  beauty,  her  position,  her  accomplishments, 
her  father's  wealth,  all  made  her  eminently 
desirable.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  same 
things  rendered  her  more  difficult  to  reach,  and 


100  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

harder  to  please.  To  get  access  to  her  heart, 
too,  it  was  necessary  to  run  the  gauntlet  of 
her  parents,  which,  until  she  had  reached  the 
age  of  twenty-three,  no  one  had  succeeded  in 
doing  safely.  Many  had  called,  but  none  had 
been  chosen. 

There  was,  however,  one  spot  left  un- 
guarded, and  through  it  Cupid,  a  veteran 
sharpshooter,  sent  a  dart.  Mr.  Clayton  had 
taken  into  his  service  and  into  his  household 
a  poor  relation,  a  sort  of  cousin  several  times 
removed.  This  boy  —  his  name  was  Jack  — 
had  gone  into  Mr.  Clayton's  service  at  a  very 
youthful  age,  —  twelve  or  thirteen.  He  had 
helped  about  the  housework,  washed  the 
dishes,  swept  the  floors,  taken  care  of  the 
lawn  and  the  stable  for  three  or  four  years, 
while  he  attended  school.  His  cousin  had 
then  taken  him  into  the  store,  where  he  had 
swept  the  floor,  washed  the  windows,  and  done 
a  class  of  work  that  kept  fully  impressed  upon 
him  the  fact  that  he  was  a  poor  dependent. 
Nevertheless  he  was  a  cheerful  lad,  who  took 
what  he  could  get  and  was  properly  grateful, 
but  always  meant  to  get  more.  By  sheer  force 
of  industry  and  affability  and  shrewdness,  he 
forced  his  employer  to  promote  him  in  time 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  101 

to  a  position  of  recognized  authority  in  the 
establishment.  Any  one  outside  of  the  family 
would  have  perceived  in  him  a  very  suitable 
husband  for  Miss  Clayton  ;  he  was  of  about 
the  same  age,  or  a  year  or  two  older,  was  as 
fair  of  complexion  as  she,  when  she  was  not 
powdered,  and  was  passably  good-looking, 
with  a  bearing  of  which  the  natural  manli- 
ness had  been  no  more  warped  than  his  train- 
ing and  racial  status  had  rendered  inevitable ; 
for  he  had  early  learned  the  law  of  growth, 
that  to  bend  is  better  than  to  break.  He 
was  sometimes  sent  to  accompany  Miss  Clay- 
ton to  places  in  the  evening,  when  she  had  no 
other  escort,  and  it  is  quite  likely  that  she 
discovered  his  good  points  before  her  parents 
did.  That  they  should  in  time  perceive  them 
was  inevitable.  But  even  then,  so  accustomed 
were  they  to  looking  down  upon  the  object  of 
their  former  bounty,  that  they  only  spoke  of 
the  matter  jocularly. 

"  Well,  Alice,"  her  father  would  say  in  his 
bluff  way,  "  you  '11  not  be  absolutely  obliged 
to  die  an  old  maid.  If  we  can't  find  anything 
better  for  you,  there  's  always  Jack.  As  long 
as  he  does  n't  take  to  some  other  girl,  you  can 
fall  back  on  him  as  a  last  chance.  He  'd  be 
glad  to  take  you  to  get  into  the  business." 


102  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

Miss  Alice  had  considered  the  joke  a  very 
poor  one  when  first  made,  but  by  occasional 
repetition  she  became  somewhat  familiar  with 
it.  In  time  it  got  around  to  Jack  himself,  to 
whom  it  seemed  no  joke  at  all.  He  had  long 
considered  it  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished,  and  when  he  became  aware  that  the 
possibility  of  such  a  match  had  occurred  to  the 
other  parties  in  interest,  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  idea  should  in  due  course  of  time 
become  an  accomplished  fact.  He  had  even 
suggested  as  much  to  Alice,  in  a  casual  way, 
to  feel  his  ground;  and  while  she  had  treated 
the  matter  lightly,  he  was  not  without  hope 
that  she  had  been  impressed  by  the  suggestion. 
Before  he  had  had  time,  however,  to  follow 
up  this  lead,  Miss  Clayton,  in  the  spring  of 
187-,  went  away  on  a  visit  to  Washington. 

The  occasion  of  her  visit  was  a  presidential 
inauguration.  The  new  President  owed  his 
nomination  mainly  to  the  votes  of  the  South- 
ern delegates  in  the  convention,  and  was  be- 
lieved to  be  correspondingly  well  disposed  to 
the  race  from  which  the  Southern  delegates 
were  for  the  most  part  recruited.  Friends 
of  rival  and  unsuccessful  candidates  for  the 
nomination  had  more  than  hinted    that    the 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  103 

Southern  delegates  were  very  substantially 
rewarded  for  their  support  at  the  time  when 
it  was  given ;  whether  this  was  true  or  not 
the  parties  concerned  know  best.  At  any  rate 
the  colored  politicians  did  not  see  it  in  that 
light,  for  they  were  gathered  from  near  and 
far  to  press  their  claims  for  recognition  and 
patronage.  On  the  evening  following  the 
White  House  inaugural  ball,  the  colored  peo- 
ple of  Washington  gave  an  "inaugural"  ball 
at  a  large  public  hall.  It  was  under  the  man- 
agement of  their  leading  citizens,  among  them 
several  high  officials  holding;  over  from  the  last 
administration,  and  a  number  of  professional 
and  business  men.  This  ball  was  the  most 
noteworthy  social  event  that  colored  circles  up 
to  that  time  had  ever  known.  There  were 
many  visitors  from  various  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. Miss  Clayton  attended  the  ball,  the 
honors  of  which  she  carried  away  easily.  She 
danced  with  several  partners,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  innumerable  people  whom  she  had 
never  seen  before,  and  whom  she  hardly  ex- 
pected ever  to  meet  again.  She  went  away 
from  the  ball,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
in  a  glow  of  triumph,  and  with  a  confused 
impression  of  senators  and  representatives  and 


104  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

lawyers  and  doctors  of  all  shades,  who  had 
sought  an  introduction,  led  her  through  the 
dance,  and  overwhelmed  her  with  compliments. 
She  returned  home  the  next  day  but  one,  after 
the  most  delightful  week  of  her  life. 


II 

One  afternoon,  about  three  weeks  after 
her  return  from  Washington,  Alice  received 
a  letter  through  the  mail.  The  envelope 
bore  the  words  "  House  of  Representatives  " 
printed  in  one  corner,  and  in  the  opposite 
corner,  in  a  bold  running  hand,  a  Con- 
gressman's frank,  "  Hamilton  M.  Brown, 
M.  C.  "     The  letter  read  as  follows  :  — 

House  of  Representatives, 
Washington,  D.  C,  March  30,  187-. 

Miss  Alice  Clayton,  Groveland. 

Dear  Friend  (if  I  may  be  permitted  to  call 
you  so  after  so  brief  an  acquaintance),  —  I 
remember  with  sincerest  pleasure  our  recent 
meeting  at  the  inaugural  ball,  and  the  sen- 
sation created  by  your  beauty,  your  amiable 
manners,  and  your  graceful  dancing.  Time 
has  so  strengthened  the  impression  I  then 
received,  that  I  should  have  felt  inconsolable 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  105 

had  I  thought  it  impossible  ever  to  again 
behold  the  charms  which  had  brightened  the 
occasion  of  our  meeting  and  eclipsed  by  their 
brilliancy  the  leading  belles  of  the  capital. 
I  had  hoped,  however,  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  again,  and  circumstances  have 
fortunately  placed  it  in  my  power  to  do  so  at 
an  early  date.  You  have  doubtless  learned 
that  the  contest  over  the  election  in  the  Sixth 
Congressional  District  of  South  Carolina  has 
been  decided  in  my  favor,  and  that  I  now 
have  the  honor  of  representing  my  native 
State  at  the  national  capital.  I  have  just 
been  appointed  a  member  of  a  special  com- 
mittee to  visit  and  inspect  the  Sault  River  and 
the  Straits  of  Mackinac,  with  reference  to 
the  needs  of  lake  navigation.  I  have  made 
arrangements  to  start  a  week  ahead  of  the 
other  members  of  the  committee,  whom  I  am 
to  meet  in  Detroit  on  the  20th.  I  shall  leave 
here  on  the  2d,  and  will  arrive  in  Groveland 
on  the  3d,  by  the  7.30  evening  express.  I 
shall  remain  in  Groveland  several  days,  in  the 
course  of  which  I  shall  be  pleased  to  call,  and 
renew  the  acquaintance  so  auspiciously  begun 
in  Washington,  which  it  is  my  fondest  hope 
may  ripen  into  a  warmer  friendship. 


106  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

If  you  do  not  regard  my  visit  as  presump- 
tuous, and  do  not  write  me  in  the  mean  while 
forbidding  it,  I  shall  do  myself  the  pleasure 
of  waiting  on  you  the  morning  after  my  arri- 
val in  Groveland. 

With  renewed  expressions  of    my  sincere 
admiration  and  profound  esteem,  I  remain, 
Sincerely  yours, 

Hamilton  M.  Brown,  M.  C. 

To  Alice,  and  especially  to  her  mother, 
this  bold  and  flowery  letter  had  very  nearly 
the  force  of  a  formal  declaration.  They  read 
it  over  again  and  again,  and  spent  most  of 
the  afternoon  discussing  it.  There  were  few 
young  men  in  Groveland  eligible  as  husbands 
for  so  superior  a  person  as  Alice  Clayton,  and 
an  addition  to  the  number  would  be  very 
acceptable.  But  the  mere  fact  of  his  being 
a  Congressman  was  not  sufficient  to  qualify 
him  ;  there  were  other  considerations. 

"  I  've  never  heard  of  this  Honorable  Hamil- 
ton M.  Brown,"  said  Mr.  Clayton.  The  letter 
had  been  laid  before  him  at  the  supper-table. 
"  It 's  strange,  Alice,  that  you  have  n't  said 
anything  about  him  before.  You  must  have 
met  lots  of  swell  folks  not  to  recollect  a  Con- 
gressman." 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  107 

u  But  he  was  n't  a  Congressman  then,"  an- 
swered Alice ;  "  he  was  only  a  claimant.  I 
remember  Senator  Bruce,  and  Mr.  Douglass  ; 
but  there  were  so  many  doctors  and  lawyers 
and  politicians  that  I  could  n't  keep  track  of 
them  all.  Still  I  have  a  faint  impression  of 
a  Mr.  Brown  who  danced  with  me." 

She  went  into  the  parlor  and  brought  out 
the  dancing  programme  she  had  used  at  the 
Washington  ball.  She  had  decorated  it  with 
a  bow  of  blue  ribbon  and  preserved  it  as 
a  souvenir  of  her  visit. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  examining  it,  "  I 
must  have  danced  with  him.  Here  are  the 
initials—  <H.  M.  B."' 

"  What  color  is  he  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Clayton, 
as  he  plied  his  knife  and  fork. 

"  I  have  a  notion  that  he  was  rather 
sdark  —  darker  than  any  one  I  had  ever 
danced  with  before." 

"  Why  did  you  dance  with  him  ?  "  asked 
her  father.  "  You  were  n't  obliged  to  go 
back  on  your  principles  because  you  were 
away  from  home." 

"  Well,  father,  *  when  you  're  in  Rome ' 
—  you  know  the  rest.  Mrs.  Clearweather 
introduced  me  to  several  dark  men,  to  him 


108  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

among  others.     They  were  her  friends,  and 
common  decency  required  me  to  be  courteous." 

"  If  this  man  is  black,  we  don't  want  to 
encourage  him.  If  he  's  the  right  sort,  we  '11 
invite  him  to  the  house." 

"  And  make  him  feel  at  home,"  added 
Mrs.  Clayton,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent. 

"  We  must  ask  Sadler  about  him  to-mor- 
row," said  Mr.  Clayton,  when  he  had  drunk 
his  coffee  and  lighted  his  cigar.  "  If  he  's 
the  right  man  he  shall  have  cause  to  remem- 
ber  his  visit  to  Groveland.  We  '11  show  him 
that  Washington  is  not  the  only  town  on 
earth." 

The  uncertainty  of  the  family  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Brown  was  soon  removed.  Mr.  Solo- 
mon Sadler,  who  was  supposed  to  know  every- 
thing worth  knowing  concerning  the  colored 
race,  and  everybody  of  importance  connected^ 
with  it,  dropped  in  after  supper  to  make  an 
evening  call.  Sadler  was  familiar  with  the 
history  of  every  man  of  negro  ancestry  who 
had  distinguished  himself  in  any  walk  of  life. 
He  could  give  the  pedigree  of  Alexander 
Pushkin,  the  titles  of  scores  of  Dumas' s  nov- 
els (even  Sadler  had  not  time  to  learn  them 
all),  and  could  recite  the  whole  of  Wendell 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  109 

Phillips's  lecture  on  Toussaint  l'Ouverture. 
He  claimed  a  personal  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Frederick  Douglass,  and  had  been  often  in 
Washington,  where  he  was  well  known  and 
well  received  in  good  colored  society. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  said  reflectively,  when 
asked  for  information  about  the  Honorable 
Hamilton  M.  Brown.  "  Yes,  I  think  I  know 
him.  He  studied  at  Oberlin  just  after  the 
war.  He  was  about  leaving  there  when  I 
entered.  There  were  two  H.  M.  Browns 
there  —  a  Hamilton  M.  Brown  and  a  Henry 
M.  Brown.  One  was  stout  and  dark  and  the 
other  was  slim  and  quite  light ;  you  could 
scarcely  tell  him  from  a  dark  white  man. 
They  used  to  call  them  '  light  Brown  '  and 
'  dark  Brown.'  I  did  n't  know  either  of  them 
except  by  sight,  for  they  were  there  only  a 
few  weeks  after  I  went  in.  As  I  remember 
them,  Hamilton  was  the  fair  one  —  a  very 
good-looking,  gentlemanly  fellow,  and,  as  I 
heard,  a  good  student  and  a  fine  speaker." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  kind  of  hair  he 
had  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Clayton. 

"  Very  good  indeed  ;  straight,  as  I  remem- 
ber it.  He  looked  something  like  a  Spaniard 
or  a  Portuguese." 


110  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

"  Now  that  you  describe  him,"  said  Alice, 
"  I  remember  quite  well  dancing  with  such  a 
gentleman  ;  and  I  'm  wrong  about  my  '  H.  M. 
B.'  The  dark  man  must  have  been  some  one 
else  ;  there  are  two  others  on  my  card  that  I 
can't  remember  distinctly,  and  he  was  prob- 
ably one  of  those." 

"  I  guess  he  's  all  right,  Alice,"  said  her 
father  when  Sadler  had  gone  away.  "  He 
evidently  means  business,  and  we  must  treat 
him  white.  Of  course  he  must  stay  with  us  ; 
there  are  no  hotels  in  Groveland  while  he  is 
here.  Let's  see — he'll  be  here  in  three 
days.  That  is  n't  very  long,  but  I  guess  we 
can  get  ready.  I  '11  write  a  letter  this  after- 
noon —  or  you  write  it,  and  invite  him  to  the 
house,  and  say  I  '11  meet  him  at  the  depot. 
And  you  may  have  carte  blanche  for  making 
the  preparations." 

"  We  must  have  some  people  to  meet  him." 

"  Certainly  ;  a  reception  is  the  proper  thing. 
Sit  down  immediately  and  write  the  letter 
and  I  '11  mail  it  first  thing  in  the  morning,  so 
he  '11  get  it  before  he  has  time  to  make  other 
arrangements.  And  you  and  your  mother 
put  your  heads  together  and  make  out  a 
list  of  guests,   and  I  '11  have  the  invitations 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  111 

printed  to-morrow.  We  will  show  the  darkeys 
of  Groveland  how  to  entertain  a  Congress- 
man." 

It  will  be  noted  that  in  moments  of  abstrac- 
tion or  excitement  Mr.  Clayton  sometimes 
relapsed  into  forms  of  speech  not  entirely 
consistent  with  his  principles.  But  some 
allowance  must  be  made  for  his  atmosphere ; 
he  could  no  more  escape  from  it  than  the 
leopard  can  change  his  spots,  or  the —  In 
deference  to  Mr.  Clayton's  feelings  the  quo- 
tation will  be  left  incomplete. 

Alice  wrote  the  letter  on  the  spot  and  it 
was  duly  mailed,  and  sped  on  its  winged  way 
to  Washington. 

The  preparations  for  the  reception  were 
made  as  thoroughly  and  elaborately  as  possible 
on  so  short  a  notice.  The  invitations  were 
issued ;  the  house  was  cleaned  from  attic  to 
cellar ;  an  orchestra  was  engaged  for  the 
evening;  elaborate  floral  decorations  were 
planned  and  the  flowers  ordered.  Even  the 
refreshments,  which  ordinarily,  in  the  house- 
hold of  a  caterer,  would  be  mere  matter  of 
familiar  detail,  became  a  subject  of  serious 
consultation  and  study. 

The  approaching  event  was  a  matter   of 


112  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

very  much  interest  to  the  fortunate  ones  who 
were  honored  with  invitations,  and  this  for 
several  reasons.  They  were  anxious  to  meet 
this  sole  representative  of  their  race  in  the 
— th  Congress,  and  as  he  was  not  one  of  the 
old-line  colored  leaders,  but  a  new  star  risen 
on  the  political  horizon,  there  was  a  special 
curiosity  to  see  who  he  was  and  what  he 
looked  like.  Moreover,  the  Claytons  did  not 
often  entertain  a  large  company,  but  when 
they  did,  it  was  on  a  scale  commensurate  with 
their  means  and  position,  and  to  be  present 
on  such  an  occasion  was  a  thing  to  remember 
and  to  talk  about.  And,  most  important 
consideration  of  all,  some  remarks  dropped 
by  members  of  the  Clayton  family  had  given 
rise  to  the  rumor  that  the  Congressman  was 
seeking  a  wife.  This  invested  his  visit  with 
a  romantic  interest,  and  gave  the  reception  a 
practical  value ;  for  there  were  other  marriage- 
able girls  besides  Miss  Clayton,  and  if  one 
was  left  another  might  be  taken. 


Ill 

On  the  evening    of   April   3d,  at   fifteen 
minutes  of  six  o'clock,  Mr.  Clayton,  accom- 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  113 

panied  by  Jack,  entered  the  livery  carriage 
waiting  at  his  gate  and  ordered  the  coachman 
to  drive  to  the  Union  Depot.  He  had  taken 
Jack  along,  partly  for  company,  and  partly 
that  Jack  might  relieve  the  Congressman  o£ 
any  trouble  about  his  baggage,  and  make 
himself  useful  in  case  of  emergency.  Jack 
was  willing  enough  to  go,  for  he  had  foreseen 
in  the  visitor  a  rival  for  Alice's  hand,  —  in- 
deed he  had  heard  more  or  less  of  the  subject 
for  several  days,  —  and  was  glad  to  make  a 
reconnaissance  before  the  enemy  arrived  upon 
the  field  of  battle.  He  had  made  —  at  least 
he  had  thought  so  —  considerable  progress 
with  Alice  during  the  three  weeks  since  her 
return  from  Washington,  and  once  or  twice 
Alice  had  been  perilously  near  the  tender 
stage.  This  visit  had  disturbed  the  situation 
and  threatened  to  ruin  his  chances ;  but  he 
did  not  mean  to  give  up  without  a  struggle. 

Arrived  at  the  main  entrance,  Mr.  Clayton 
directed  the  carriage  to  wait,  and  entered  the 
station  with  Jack.  The  Union  Depot  at 
Groveland  was  an  immense  oblong  structure, 
covering  a  dozen  parallel  tracks  and  furnishing 
terminal  passenger  facilities  for  half  a  dozen 
railroads.     The  tracks  ran  east  and  west,  and 


114  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE. 

the  depot  was  entered  from  the  south,  at 
about  the  middle  of  the  building.  On  either 
side  of  the  entrance,  the  waiting-rooms,  re- 
freshment rooms,  baggage  and  express  depart- 
ments, and  other  administrative  offices,  ex- 
tended in  a  row  for  the  entire  length  of  the 
building ;  and  beyond  them  and  parallel  with 
them  stretched  a  long  open  space,  separated 
from  the  tracks  by  an  iron  fence  or  grille. 
There  were  two  entrance  gates  in  the  fence, 
at  which  tickets  must  be  shown  before  access 
could  be  had  to  trains,  and  two  other  gates, 
by  which  arriving  passengers  came  out. 

Mr.  Clayton  looked  at  the  blackboard  on 
the  wall  underneath  the  station  clock,  and 
observed  that  the  7.30  train  from  Washing- 
ton was  five  minutes  late.  Accompanied  by 
Jack  he  walked  up  and  down  the  platform 
until  the  train,  with  the  usual  accompaniment 
of  panting  steam  and  clanging  bell  and  rum- 
bling trucks,  pulled  into  the  station,  and  drew 
up  on  the  third  or  fourth  track  from  the  iron 
railing.  Mr.  Clayton  stationed  himself  at  the 
gate  nearest  the  rear  end  of  the  train,  reason- 
ing that  the  Congressman  would  ride  in  a  par- 
lor car,  and  would  naturally  come  out  by  the 
gate  nearest  the  point  at  which  he  left  the 
train. 


A  MATTER    OF  PRINCIPLE  115 

"  You  'd  better  go  and  stand  by  the  other 
gate,  Jack,"  he  said  to  his  companion,  "  and 
stop  him  if  he  goes  out  that  way." 

The  train  was  well  filled  and  a  stream  of 
passengers  poured  through.  Mr.  Clayton 
scanned  the  crowd  carefully  as  they  ap- 
proached the  gate,  and  scrutinized  each  pas- 
senger as  he  came  through,  without  seeing 
any  one  that  met  the  description  of  Congress- 
man Brown,  as  given  by  Sadler,  or  any  one 
that  could  in  his  opinion  be  the  gentleman 
for  whom  he  was  looking.  When  the  last 
one  had  passed  through  he  was  left  to  the 
conclusion  that  his  expected  guest  had  gone 
out  by  the  other  gate.  Mr.  Clayton  hastened 
thither. 

"  Did  n't  he  come  out  this  way,  Jack?  "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  the  young  man,  "  I 
have  n't  seen  him." 

"  That 's  strange,"  mused  Mr.  Clayton, 
somewhat  anxiously.  "  He  would  hardly  fail 
to  come  without  giving  us  notice.  Surely  we 
must  have  missed  him.  We  'd  better  look 
around  a  little.  You  go  that  way  and  I  '11 
go  this." 

Mr.  Clayton    turned   and   walked   several 


116  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

rods  along  the  platform  to  the  men's  waiting- 
room,  and  standing  near  the  door  glanced 
around  to  see  if  he  could  find  the  object  of 
his  search.  The  only  colored  person  in  the 
room  was  a  stout  and  very  black  man,  wear- 
ing a  broadcloth  suit  and  a  silk  hat,  and 
seated  a  short  distance  from  the  door.  On 
the  seat  by  his  side  stood  a  couple  of  valises. 
On  one  of  them,  the  one  nearest  him,  on 
which  his  arm  rested,  was  written,  in  white 
letters,  plainly  legible,  — 

«  H.  M.  Brown,  M.  C. 

"  Washington,  D.  C." 

Mr.  Clayton's  feelings  at  this  discovery  can 
better  be  imagined  than  described.  He  hastily 
left  the  waiting-room,  before  the  black  gentle- 
man, who  was  looking  the  other  way,  was 
even  aware  of  his  presence,  and,  walking 
rapidly  up  and  down  the  platform,  communed 
with  himself  upon  what  course  of  action  the 
situation  demanded.  He  had  invited  to  his 
house,  had  come  down  to  meet,  had  made 
elaborate  preparations  to  entertain  on  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  a  light-colored  man,  —  a  white 
man  by  his  theory,  an  acceptable  guest,  a 
possible  husband  for  his  daughter,  an  avowed 


A  MATTER  OF  PRINCIPLE  117 

suitor  for  her  hand.  If  the  Congressman  had 
turned  out  to  be  brown,  even  dark  brown, 
with  fairly  good  hair,  though  he  might  not 
have  desired  him  as  a  son-in-law,  yet  he 
could  have  welcomed  him  as  a  guest.  But 
even  this  softening  of  the  blow  was  denied 
him,  for  the  man  in  the  waiting-room  was 
palpably,  aggressively  black,  with  pronounced 
African  features  and  woolly  hair,  without 
apparently  a  single  drop  of  redeeming  white 
blood.  Could  he,  in  the  face  of  his  well- 
known  principles,  his  lifelong  rule  of  conduct, 
take  this  negro  into  his  home  and  introduce 
him  to  his  friends?  Could  he  subject  his 
wife  and  daughter  to  the  rude  shock  of  such  a 
disappointment  ?  It  would  be  bad  enough 
for  them  to  learn  of  the  ghastly  mistake,  but 
to  have  him  in  the  house  would  be  twisting 
the  arrow  in  the  wound. 

Mr.  Clayton  had  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman, 
and  realized  the  delicacy  of  the  situation.  But 
to  get  out  of  his  difficulty  without  wounding 
the  feelings  of  the  Congressman  required  not 
only  diplomacy  but  dispatch.  Whatever  he 
did  must  be  done  promptly ;  for  if  he  waited 
many  minutes  the  Congressman  would  prob- 
ably take  a  carriage  and  be  driven  to  Mr. 
Clayton's  residence. 


118  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

A  ray  of  hope  came  for  a  moment  to  illu- 
mine the  gloom  of  the  situation.  Perhaps 
the  black  man  was  merely  sitting  there,  and 
not  the  owner  of  the  valise  !  For  there  were 
two  valises,  one  on  each  side  of  the  supposed 
Congressman.  For  obvious  reasons  he  did 
not  care  to  make  the  inquiry  himself,  so  he 
looked  around  for  his  companion,  who  came 
up  a  moment  later. 

"Jack,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  "I'm 
afraid  we  're  in  the  worst  kind  of  a  hole,  un- 
less there  's  some  mistake !  Run  down  to  the 
men's  waiting-room  and  you  '11  see  a  man  and 
a  valise,  and  you  '11  understand  what  I  mean. 
Ask  that  darkey  if  he  is  the  Honorable  Mr. 
Brown,  Congressman  from  South  Carolina. 
If  he  says  yes,  come  back  right  away  and  let 
me  know,  without  giving  him  time  to  ask  any 
questions,  and  put  your  wits  to  work  to  help 
me  out  of  the  scrape." 

"  I  wonder  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Jack 
to  himself,  but  did  as  he  was  told.  In  a 
moment  he  came  running  back. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  announced  ;  "  he  says  he 's 
the  man." 

"  Jack,"  said  Mr.  Clayton  desperately,  "  if 
you  want  to  show  your  appreciation  of  what 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  119 

I  've  done  for  you,  you  must  suggest  some 
way  out  of  this.  I  'd  never  dare  to  take  that 
negro  to  my  house,  and  yet  I  'm  obliged  to 
treat  him  like  a  gentleman." 

Jack's  eyes  had  worn  a  somewhat  reflective 
look  since  he  had  gone  to  make  the  inquiry. 
Suddenly  his  face  brightened  with  intelli- 
gence, and  then,  as  a  newsboy  ran  into  the 
station  calling  his  wares,  hardened  into  deter- 
mination. 

"  Clarion,  special  extry  'dition  !  All  about 
de  epidemic  er  dipt'eria  !  "  clamored  the  news- 
boy with  shrill  childish  treble,  as  he  made  his 
way  toward  the  waiting-room.  Jack  darted 
after  him,  and  saw  the  man  to  whom  he  had 
spoken  buy  a  paper.  He  ran  back  to  his  em- 
ployer, and  dragged  him  over  toward  the 
ticket-seller's  window. 

"  I  have  it,  sir !  "  he  exclaimed,  seizing  a 
telegraph  blank  and  writing  rapidly,  and 
reading:  aloud  as  he  wrote.  "  How  's  this  for 
a  way  out?  "  — 

"Deah  Sir, —  I  write  you  this  note  here 
in  the  depot  to  inform  you  of  an  unfortunate 
event  which  has  interfered  with  my  plans  and 
those  of  my  family  for   your  entertainment 


120  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

while  in  Groveland.  Yesterday  my  daughter 
Alice  complained  of  a  sore  throat,  which  by 
this  afternoon  had  developed  into  a  case  of 
malignant  diphtheria.  In  consequence  our 
house  has  been  quarantined  ;  and  while  I  have 
felt  myself  obliged  to  come  down  to  the 
depot,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  ought  to  expose 
you  to  the  possibility  of  infection,  and  I 
therefore  send  you  this  by  another  hand. 
The  bearer  will  conduct  you  to  a  carriage 
which  I  have  ordered  placed  at  your  service, 
and  unless  you  should  prefer  some  other 
hotel,  you  will  be  driven  to  the  Forest  Hill 
House,  where  I  beg  you  will  consider  yourself 
my  guest  during  your  stay  in  the  city,  and 
make  the  fullest  use  of  every  convenience  it 
may  offer.  From  present  indications  I  fear 
no  one  of  our  family  will  be  able  to  see  you, 
which  we  shall  regret  beyond  expression,  as 
we  have  made  elaborate  arrangements  for 
your  entertainment.  I  still  hope,  however, 
that  you  may  enjoy  your  visit,  as  there  are 
many  places  of  interest  in  the  city,  and  many 
friends  will  doubtless  be  glad  to  make  your 
acquaintance. 

"  With  assurances  of  my  profound  regret, 
I  am  Sincerely  yours, 

"  Cicero  Clayton." 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  121 

"  Splendid  !  "  cried  Mr.  Clayton.  "  You  've 
helped  me  out  of  a  horrible  scrape.  Now,  go 
and  take  him  to  the  hotel  and  see  him  com- 
fortably located,  and  tell  them  to  charge  the 
bill  to  me." 

"  I  suspect,  sir,"  suggested  Jack,  "  that 
I  'd  better  not  go  up  to  the  house,  and  you  '11 
have  to  stay  in  yourself  for  a  day  or  two, 
to  keep  up  appearances.  I  '11  sleep  on  the 
lounge  at  the  store,  and  we  can  talk  business 
over  the  telephone." 

"  All  right,  Jack,  we  '11  arrange  the  details 
later.  But  for  Heaven's  sake  get  him  started, 
or  he  '11  be  calling  a  hack  to  drive  up  to  the 
house.     I  '11  go  home  on  a  street  car." 

"  So  far  so  good,"  sighed  Mr.  Clayton  to 
himself  as  he  escaped  from  the  station.  "Jack 
is  a  deuced  clever  fellow,  and  I  '11  have  to  do 
something  more  for  him.  But  the  tug-of- 
war  is  yet  to  come.  I  've  got  to  bribe  a  doc- 
tor, shut  up  the  house  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
have  all  the  ill-humor  of  two  disappointed 
women  to  endure  until  this  neo-ro  leaves  town. 
Well,  I  'm  sure  my  wife  and  Alice  will  back 
me  up  at  any  cost.  No  sacrifice  is  too  great 
to  escape  having  to  entertain  him  ;  of  course 
I  have  no  prejudice  against  his  color,  —  he 


122  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

can't  help  that,  —  but  it  is  the  principle  of 
the  thing-.  If  we  received  him  it  would  be  a 
concession  fatal  to  all  my  views  and  theories. 
And  I  am  really  doing  him  a  kindness,  for 
I  'm  sure  that  all  the  world  could  not  make 
Alice  and  her  mother  treat  him  with  anything 
but  cold  politeness.  It  '11  be  a  great  mortifi- 
cation to  Alice,  but  I  don't  see  how  else  I 
could  have  got  out  of  it." 

He  boarded  the  first  car  that  left  the  depot, 
and  soon  reached  home.  The  house  was 
lighted  up,  and  through  the  lace  curtains  of 
the  parlor  windows  he  could  see  his  wife  and 
daughter,  elegantly  dressed,  waiting  to  receive 
their  distinguished  visitor.  He  rang  the  bell 
impatiently,  and  a  servant  opened  the  door. 

"  The  gentleman  did  n't  come  ?  "  asked  the 
maid. 

"  No,"  he  said  as  he  hung  up  his  hat. 
This  brought  the  ladies  to  the  door. 

"He  didn't  come?"  they  exclaimed. 
"  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you,"  he  said.  "  Mary,"  this  to 
the  servant,  a  white  girl,  who  stood  in  open- 
eyed  curiosity,  "  we  shan't  need  you  any  more 
to-night." 

Then  he  went  into  the  parlor,  and,  closing 


.4   MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  123 

the  door,  told  his  story.  When  he  reached  the 
point  where  he  had  discovered  the  color  of 
the  honorable  Mr.  Brown,  Miss  Clayton  caught 
her  breath,  and  was  on  the  verge  of  collapse. 

"  That  nigger,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton  indig- 
nantly, "  can  never  set  foot  in  this  house. 
But  what  did  you  do  with  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Clayton  quickly  unfolded  his  plan,  and 
described  the  disposition  he  had  made  of  the 
Congressman. 

"  It 's  an  awful  shame,"  said  Mrs.  Clayton. 
"  Just  think  of  the  trouble  and  expense  we 
have  gone  to  !  And  poor  Alice  '11  never  get 
over  it,  for  everybody  knows  he  came  to  see 
her  and  that  he 's  smitten  with  her.  But 
you  've  done  just  right ;  we  never  would  have 
been  able  to  hold  up  our  heads  again  if  we 
had  introduced  a  black  man,  even  a  Congress- 
man, to  the  people  that  are  invited  here  to- 
morrow night,  as  a  sweetheart  of  Alice. 
Why,  she  wouldn't  marry  him  if  he  was 
President  of  the  United  States  and  plated 
with  gold  an  inch  thick.      The  very  idea  !  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Clayton,  "then  we've 
got  to  act  quick.  Alice  must  wrap  up  her 
throat  —  by  the  way,  Alice,  how  is  your 
throat?" 


124  A   MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

"It's  sore,"  sobbed  Alice,  who  had  been 
in  tears  almost  from  her  father's  return,  "  and 
I  don't  care  if  I  do  have  diphtheria  and  die, 
no,  I  don't !  "  and  she  wept  on. 

"  Wrap  up  your  throat  and  go  to  bed,  and 
I  '11  go  over  to  Doctor  Pillsbury's  and  get  a 
diphtheria  card  to  nail  up  on  the  house.  In 
the  morning,  first  thing,  we  '11  have  to  write 
notes  recalling  the  invitations  for  to-morrow 
evening,  and  have  them  delivered  by  mes- 
senger boys.  We  were  fools  for  not  finding 
out  all  about  this  man  from  some  one  who 
knew,  before  we  invited  him  here.  Sadler 
don't  know  more  than  half  he  thinks  he  does, 
anyway.  And  we  '11  have  to  do  this  thing 
thoroughly,  or  our  motives  will  be  miscon- 
strued, and  people  will  say  we  are  prejudiced 
and  all  that,  when  it  is  only  a  matter  of  prin- 
ciple with  us." 

The  programme  outlined  above  was  carried 
out  to  the  letter.  The  invitations  were  re- 
called, to  the  great  disappointment  of  the 
invited  guests.  The  family  physician  called 
several  times  during  the  day.  Alice  remained 
in  bed,  and  the  maid  left  without  notice,  in 
such  a  hurry  that  she  forgot  to  take  her  best 
clothes. 


A  MATTER    OF  PRINCIPLE  125 

Mr.  Clayton  himself  remained  at  home. 
He  had  a  telephone  in  the  house,  and  was 
therefore  in  easy  communication  with  his 
office,  so  that  the  business  did  not  suffer  ma- 
terially by  reason  of  his  absence  from  the 
store.  About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  a 
note  came  up  from  the  hotel,  expressing  Mr. 
Brown's  regrets  and  sympathy.  Toward  noon 
Mr.  Clayton  picked  up  the  morning  paper, 
which  he  had  not  theretofore  had  time  to  read, 
and  was  glancing  over  it  casually,  when  his 
eye  fell  upon  a  column  headed  "A  Colored  Con- 
gressman." He  read  the  article  with  astonish- 
ment that  rapidly  turned  to  chagrin  and 
dismay.  It  was  an  interview  describing  the 
Congressman  as  a  tall  and  shapely  man,  about 
thirty-five  years  old,  with  an  olive  complexion 
not  noticeably  darker  than  many  a  white 
man's,  straight  hair,  and  eyes  as  black  as  sloes. 

"  The  bearing-  of  this  son  of  South  Carolina 
reveals  the  polished  manners  of  the  Southern 
gentleman,  and  neither  from  his  appearance 
nor  his  conversation  would  one  suspect  that 
the  white  blood  which  flows  in  his  veins  in 
such  preponderating  measure  had  ever  been 
crossed  by  that  of  a  darker  race,"  wrote  the 
reporter,  who    had   received   instructions    at 


126  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

the  office  that  for  urgent  husiness  considera- 
tions the  lake  shipping  interest  wanted  Repre- 
sentative Brown  treated  with  marked  consid- 
eration. 

There  was  more  of  the  article,  but  the 
introductory  portion  left  Mr.  Clayton  in  such 
a  state  of  bewilderment  that  the  paper  fell 
from  his  hand.  What  was  the  meaning  of 
it  ?  Had  he  been  mistaken  ?  Obviously  so, 
or  else  the  reporter  was  wrong,  which  was 
manifestly  improbable.  When  he  had  recov- 
ered himself  somewhat,  he  picked  up  the 
newspaper  and  began  reading  where  he  had 
left  off. 

"  Representative  Brown  traveled  to  Grove- 
land  in  company  with  Bishop  Jones  of  the 
African  Methodist  Jerusalem  Church,  who  is 
en  route  to  attend  the  general  conference 
of  his  denomination  at  Detroit  next  week. 
The  bishop,  who  came  in  while  the  writer 
was  interviewing  Mr.  Brown,  is  a  splendid 
type  of  the  pure  negro.  He  is  said  to 
be  a  man  of  great  power  among  his  people, 
which  may  easily  be  believed  after  one  has 
looked  upon  his  expressive  countenance  and 
heard  him  discuss  the  questions  which  affect 
the  welfare  of  his  church  and  his  race." 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  127 

Mr.  Clayton  stared  at  the  paper.  " '  The 
bishop,'  "  he  repeated,  " ( is  a  splendid  type 
of  the  pure  negro.  I  must  have  mistaken 
the  bishop  for  the  Congressman  !  But  how 
in  the  world  did  Jack  get  the  thing  balled 
up  ?  I  '11  call  up  the  store  and  demand  an 
explanation  of  him. 

"  Jack,"  he  asked,  "  what  kind  of  a  looking 
man  was  the  fellow  you  gave  the  note  to  at 
the  depot  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  very  wicked-looking  fellow,  sir," 
came  back  the  answer.  "  He  had  a  bad  eye, 
looked  like  a  gambler,  sir.  I  am  not  sur- 
prised that  you  did  n't  want  to  entertain  him, 
even  if  he  was  a  Congressman." 

"  What  color  was  he  —  that 's  what  I  want 
to  know  —  and  what  kind  of  hair  did  he 
have  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  was  about  my  complexion,  sir, 
and  had  straight  black  hair." 

The  rules  of  the  telephone  company  did 
not  permit  swearing  over  the  line.  Mr.  Clay- 
ton broke  the  rules. 

"  Was  there  any  one  else  with  him  ?  "  he 
asked  when  he  had  relieved  his  mind. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Bishop  Jones  of  the  African 
Methodist  Jerusalem  Church  was  sitting  there 


128  A   MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

with  him  ;  they  had  traveled  from  Washing- 
ton together.  I  drove  the  bishop  to  his  stop- 
ping-place after  I  had  left  Mr.  Brown  at  the 
hotel.       I  did  n't  suppose  you  'd  mind." 

Mr.  Clayton  fell  into  a  chair,  and  indulged 
in  thoughts  unutterable. 

He  folded  up  the  paper  and  slipped  it 
under  the  family  Bible,  where  it  was  least 
likely  to  be  soon  discovered. 

"  I  '11  hide  the  paper,  anyway,"  he  groaned. 
"I'll  never  hear  the  last  of  this  till  my  dying 
day,  so  I  may  as  well  have  a  few  hours' 
respite.  It 's  too  late  to  go  back,  and  we  've 
got  to  play  the  farce  out.  Alice  is  really  sick 
with  disappointment,  and  to  let  her  know 
this  now  would  only  make  her  worse.  May 
be  he  '11  leave  town  in  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
she  '11  be  in  condition  to  stand  it.  Such 
luck  is  enough  to  disgust  a  man  with  trying 
to  do  right  and  live  up  to  his  principles." 

Time  hung  a  little  heavy  on  Mr.  Clayton's 
hands  during  the  day.  His  wife  was  busy 
with  the  housework.  He  answered  several 
telephone  calls  about  Alice's  health,  and  called 
up  the  store  occasionally  to  ask  how  the  busi- 
ness was  getting  on.  After  lunch  he  lay 
down  on  a  sofa  and  took  a  nap,  from  which 


A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  129 

he  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  the  door-bell. 
He  went  to  the  door.  The  evening  paper  was 
lying  on  the  porch,  and  the  newsboy,  who  had 
not  observed  the  diphtheria  sign  until  after  he 
had  rung,  was  hurrying  away  as  fast  as  his 
legs  would  carry  him. 

Mr.  Clayton  opened  the  paper  and  looked 
it  through  to  see  if  there  was  any  reference 
to  the  visiting-  Congressman.  He  found  what 
he  sought  and  more.  An  article  on  the  local 
page  contained  a  resume  of  the  information 
given  in  the  morning  paper,  with  the  follow- 
ing additional  paragraph  :  — 

"  A  reporter,  who  called  at  the  Forest  Hill 
this  morning  to  interview  Representative 
Brown,  was  informed  that  the  Congressman 
had  been  invited  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
his  time  in  Groveland  as  the  guest  of  Mr. 
William  Watkins,  the  proprietor  of  the  popu- 
lar livery  establishment  on  Main  Street.  Mr. 
Brown  will  remain  in  the  city  several  days,  and 
a  reception  will  be  tendered  him  at  Mr.  Wat- 
kins's  on  Wednesday  evening." 

"  That  ends  it,"  sighed  Mr.  Clayton.  "  The 
dove  of  peace  will  never  again  rest  on  my 
roof-tree." 

But  why  dwell  longer  on  the  sufferings  of 


130  A  MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE 

Mr.  Clayton,  or  attempt  to  describe  the  feel- 
ings or  chronicle  the  remarks  of  his  wife  and 
daughter  when  they  learned  the  facts  in  the 
case? 

As  to  Representative  Brown,  he  was  made 
welcome  in  the  hospitable  home  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Watkins.  There  was  a  large  and  bril- 
liant assemblage  at  the  party  on  Wednesday 
evening,  at  which  were  displayed  the  costumes 
prepared  for  the  Clayton  reception.  Mr. 
Brown  took  a  fancy  to  Miss  Lura  Watkins, 
to  whom,  before  the  week  was  over,  he  became 
engaged  to  be  married.  Meantime  poor  Alice, 
the  innocent  victim  of  circumstances  and  prin- 
ciples, lay  sick  abed  with  a  supposititious  case 
of  malignant  diphtheria,  and  a  real  case  of 
acute  disappointment  and  chagrin. 

"  Oh,  Jack ! "  exclaimed  Alice,  a  few  weeks 
later,  on  the  way  home  from  evening  church 
in  company  with  the  young  man,  "  what  a 
dreadful  thing  it  all  was  !  And  to  think  of 
that  hateful  Lura  Watkins  marrying  the 
Congressman  !  " 

The  street  was  shaded  by  trees  at  the  point 
where  they  were  passing,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  sight.  Jack  put  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and,  leaning  over,  kissed  her. 


A   MATTER   OF  PRINCIPLE  131 

"  Never  mind,  dear,"  he  said  soothingly, 
"  you  still  have  your '  last  chance  '  left,  and  I  '11 
prove  myself  a  better  man  than  the  Congress- 
man." 

Occasionally,  at  social  meetings,  when  the 
vexed  question  of  the  future  of  the  colored 
race  comes  up,  as  it  often  does,  for  discussion, 
Mr.  Clayton  may  still  be  heard  to  remark 
sententiously  :  — 

"  What  the  white  people  of  the  United 
States  need  most,  in  dealing  with  this  problem, 
is  a  higher  conception  of  the  brotherhood  of 
man.  For  of  one  blood  God  made  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth." 


CICELY'S  DREAM 


The  old  woman  stood  at  the  back  door  of 
the  cabin,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand, 
and  looking  across  the  vegetable  garden  that 
ran  up  to  the  very  door.  Beyond  the  garden 
she  saw,  bathed  in  the  sunlight,  a  field  of 
corn,  just  in  the  ear,  stretching  for  half  a 
mile,  its  yellow,  pollen-laden  tassels  over- 
topping the  dark  green  mass  of  broad  glisten- 
ing blades ;  and  in  the  distance,  through  the 
faint  morning  haze  of  evaporating  dew,  the 
line  of  the  woods,  of  a  still  darker  green, 
meeting  the  clear  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 
Old  Dinah  saw,  going  down  the  path,  a  tall, 
brown  girl,  in  a  homespun  frock,  swinging  a 
slat-bonnet  in  one  hand  and  a  splint  basket 
in  the  other. 

"  Oh,  Cicely  !  "  she  called. 

The  girl  turned  and  answered  in  a  resonant 
voice,  vibrating  with  youth  and  life,— 

"  Yes,  granny  !  " 


CICELY'S  BEE  AM  133 

"  Be  sho'  and  pick  a  good  mess  er  peas, 
chile,  fer  yo'  gran'daddy  's  gwine  ter  be  home 
ter  dinner  ter-day." 

The  old  woman  stood  a  moment  longer  and 
then  turned  to  go  into  the  house.  What  she 
had  not  seen  was  that  the  girl  was  not  only 
young,  but  lithe  and  shapely  as  a  sculptor's 
model ;  that  her  bare  feet  seemed  to  spurn 
the  earth  as  they  struck  it ;  that  though 
brown,  she  was  not  so  brown  but  that  her 
cheek  was  darkly  red  with  the  blood  of  an- 
other race  than  that  which  gave  her  her  name 
and  station  in  life  ;  and  the  old  woman  did  not 
see  that  Cicely's  face  was  as  comely  as  her 
figure  was  superb,  and  that  her  eyes  were 
dreamy  with  vague  yearnings. 

Cicely  climbed  the  low  fence  between  the 
garden  and  the  cornfield,  and  started  down 
one  of  the  long  rows  leading  directly  away 
from  the  house.  Old  Needham  was  a  good 
ploughman,  and  straight  as  an  arrow  ran  the 
furrow  between  the  rows  of  corn,  until  it  van- 
ished in  the  distant  perspective.  The  peas 
were  planted  beside  alternate  hills  of  corn,  the 
corn-stalks  serving  as  supports  for  the  climb- 
ing pea-vines.  The  vines  nearest  the  house 
had  been  picked  more  or  less  clear  of  the  long 


134  CICELY'S  DREAM 

green  pods,  and  Cicely  walked  down  the  row 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  to  where  the  peas  were 
more  plentiful.  And  as  she  walked  she 
thought  of  her  dream  of  the  night  before. 

She  had  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream.  The 
fact  that  it  was  a  beautiful  dream,  a  delight- 
ful dream,  her  memory  retained  very  vividly. 
She  was  troubled  because  she  could  not 
remember  just  what  her  dream  had  been 
about.  Of  one  other  fact  she  was  certain,  that 
in  her  dream  she  had  found  something,  and 
that  her  happiness  had  been  bound  up  with  the 
thing  she  had  found.  As  she  walked  down  the 
corn-row  she  ran  over  in  her  mind  the  various 
things  with  which  she  had  always  associated 
happiness.  Had  she  found  a  gold  ring  ?  No, 
it  was  not  a  gold  ring — of  that  she  felt  sure. 
Was  it  a  soft,  curly  plume  for  her  hat  ? 
She  had  seen  town  people  with  them,  and 
had  indulged  in  day-dreams  on  the  subject; 
but  it  was  not  a  feather.  Was  it  a  bright- 
colored  silk  dress  ?  No  ;  as  much  as  she  had 
always  wanted  one,  it  was  not  a  silk  dress. 
For  an  instant,  in  a  dream,  she  had  tasted 
some  great  and  novel  happiness,  and  when 
she  awoke  it  was  dashed  from  her  lips,  and 
she  could  not  even  enjoy  the  memory  of  it, 


CICELY'S  DEE  AM  135 

except  in  a  vague,  indefinite,  and  tantalizing 
way. 

Cicely  was  troubled,  too,  because  dreams 
were  serious  things.  Dreams  had  certain 
meanings,  most  of  them,  and  some  dreams 
went  by  contraries.  If  her  dream  had  been 
a  prophecy  of  some  good  thing,  she  had  by 
forgetting  it  lost  the  pleasure  of  anticipa- 
tion. If  her  dream  had  been  one  of  those 
that  go  by  contraries,  the  warning  would  be 
in  vain,  because  she  would  not  know  against 
what  evil  to  provide.  So,  with  a  sigh,  Cicely 
said  to  herself  that  it  was  a  troubled  world, 
more  or  less  ;  and  having  come  to  a  promising 
point,  began  to  pick  the  tenderest  pea-pods 
and  throw  them  into  her  basket. 

By  the  time  she  had  reached  the  end  of  the 
line  the  basket  was  nearly  full.  Glancing 
toward  the  pine  woods  beyond  the  rail  fence, 
she  saw  a  brier  bush  loaded  with  large, 
luscious  blackberries.  Cicely  was  fond  of 
blackberries,  so  she  set  her  basket  down, 
climbed  the  fence,  and  was  soon  busily  en- 
gaged in  gathering  the  fruit,  delicious  even 
in  its  wild  state. 

She  had  soon  eaten  all  she  cared  for.  But 
the  berries  were  still  numerous,  and  it  occurred 


136  CICELY'S  DEE  AM 

to  her  that  her  granddaddy  would  like  a  black- 
berry pudding  for  dinner.  Catching  up  her 
apron,  and  using  it  as  a  receptacle  for  the 
berries,  she  had  gathered  scarcely  more  than 
a  handful  when  she  heard  a  groan. 

Cicely  was  not  timid,  and  her  curiosity 
being  aroused  by  the  sound,  she  stood  erect, 
and  remained  in  a  listening  attitude.  In  a 
moment  the  sound  was  repeated,  and,  gaug- 
ing the  point  from  which  it  came,  she  plunged 
resolutely  into  the  thick  underbrush  of  the 
forest.  She  had  gone  but  a  few  yards  when 
she  stopped  short  with  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  concern. 

Upon  the  ground,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
towering  pines,  a  man  lay  at  full  length, — 
a  young  man,  several  years  under  thirty,  ap- 
parently, so  far  as  his  age  could  be  guessed 
from  a  face  that  wore  a  short  soft  beard, 
and  was  so  begrimed  with  dust  and  in- 
crusted  with  blood  that  little  could  be  seen  of 
the  underlying  integument.  What  was  visi- 
ble showed  a  skin  browned  by  nature  or  by 
exposure.  His  hands  were  of  even  a  darker 
brown,  almost  as  dark  as  Cicely's  own.  A 
tangled  mass  of  very  curly  black  hair,  matted 
with  burs,  dank  with  dew,  and  clotted  with 


CICELY'S  BREAM  137 

blood,  fell  partly  over  his  forehead,  on  the 
edge  of  which,  extending  back  into  the  hair, 
an  ugly  scalp  wound  was  gaping,  and,  though 
apparently  not  just  inflicted,  was  still  bleeding 
slowly,  as  though  reluctant  to  stop,  in  spite 
of  the  coagulation  that  had  almost  closed  it. 

Cicely  with  a  glance  took  in  all  this  and 
more.  But,  first  of  all,  she  saw  the  man  was 
wounded  and  bleeding,  and  the  nurse  latent 
in  all  womankind  awoke  in  her  to  the  require- 
ments of  the  situation.  She  knew  there  was 
a  spring  a  few  rods  away,  and  ran  swiftly 
to  it.  There  was  usually  a  gourd  at  the 
spring,  but  now  it  was  gone.  Pouring  out 
the  blackberries  in  a  little  heap  where  they 
could  be  found  again,  she  took  off  her 
apron,  dipped  one  end  of  it  into  the  spring, 
and  ran  back  to  the  wounded  man.  The 
apron  was  clean,  and  she  squeezed  a  little 
stream  of  water  from  it  into  the  man's 
mouth.  He  swallowed  it  with  avidity.  Cicely 
then  knelt  by  his  side,  and  with  the  wet 
end  of  her  apron  washed  the  blood  from 
the  wound  lightly,  and  the  dust  from  the 
man's  face.  Then  she  looked  at  her  apron  a 
moment,  debating  whether  she  should  tear  it 
or  not. 


138  CICELY'S  DREAM 

"  I  'm  feared  granny  '11  be  mad,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  I  reckon  I  '11  jes'  use  de  whole 
apron." 

So  she  bound  the  apron  around  his  head 
as  well  as  she  could,  and  then  sat  down  a 
moment  on  a  fallen  tree  trunk,  to  think  what 
she  should  do  next.  The  man  already  seemed 
more  comfortable ;  he  had  ceased  moaning, 
and  lay  quiet,  though  breathing  heavily. 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  that  man  ? "  she 
reflected.  "  I  don'  know  whether  he  's  a 
w'ite  man  or  a  black  man.  Ef  he  's  a  w'ite 
man,  I  oughter  go  an'  tell  de  w'ite  folks 
up  at  de  big  house,  an'  dey  'd  take  keer 
of  'im.  If  he  's  a  black  man,  I  oughter  go 
tell  granny.  He  don'  look  lack  a  black  man 
somehow  er  nuther,  an'  yet  he  don'  look 
lack  a  w'ite  man  ;  he 's  too  dahk,  an'  his 
hair's  too  curly.  But  I  mus'  do  somethin' 
wid  'im.  He  can't  be  lef  here  ter  die  in  de 
woods  all  by  hisse'f .  Reckon  I  '11  go  an' 
tell  granny." 

She  scaled  the  fence,  caught  up  the  basket 
of  peas  from  where  she  had  left  it,  and  ran, 
lightly  and  swiftly  as  a  deer,  toward  the 
house.  Her  short  skirt  did  not  impede  her 
progress,   and    in    a   few   minutes   she   had 


CICELY'S  DREAM  139 

covered  the  half  mile  and  was  at  the  cabin 
door,  a  slight  heaving  of  her  full  and  yet 
youthful  breast  being  the  only  sign  of  any 
unusual  exertion. 

Her  story  was  told  in  a  moment.  The  old 
woman  took  down  a  black  bottle  from  a  high 
shelf,  and  set  out  with  Cicely  across  the  corn- 
field, toward  the  wounded  man. 

As  they  went  through  the  corn  Cicely  re- 
called part  of  her  dream.  She  had  dreamed 
that  under  some  strange  circumstances  — what 
they  had  been  was  still  obscure  — she  had  met 
a  young  man  —  a  young  man  whiter  than  she 
and  yet  not  all  white  —  and  that  he  had  loved 
her  and  courted  her  and  married  her.  Her 
dream  had  been  all  the  sweeter  because  in  it 
she  had  first  tasted  the  sweetness  of  love,  and 
she  had  not  recalled  it  before  because  only  in 
her  dream  had  she  known  or  thought  of  love 
as  something  supremely  desirable. 

With  the  memory  of  her  dream,  how- 
ever, her  fears  revived.  Dreams  were  sol- 
emn things.  To  Cicely  the  fabric  of  a  vision 
was  by  no  means  baseless.  Her  trouble  arose 
from  her  not  being  able  to  recall,  though  she 
was  well  versed  in  dream-lore,  just  what  event 
was  foreshadowed  by  a  dream  of  finding  a 


140  CICELY'S  DREAM 

wounded  man.  If  the  wounded  man  were  of 
her  own  race,  her  dream  would  thus  far  have 
been  realized,  and  having  met  the  young  man, 
the  other  joys  might  be  expected  to  follow. 
If  he  should  turn  out  to  be  a  white  man, 
then  her  dream  was  clearly  one  of  the  kind 
that  go  by  contraries,  and  she  could  expect 
only  sorrow  and  trouble  and  pain  as  the 
proper  sequences  of  this  fateful  discovery. 


II 

The  two  women  reached  the  fence  that 
separated  the  cornfield  from  the  pine  woods. 

"  How  is  I  gwine  ter  git  ovuh  dat  fence, 
chile?"  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  granny,"  said  Cicely ; 
"  I  '11  take  it  down." 

It  was  only  an  eight-rail  fence,  and  it  was 
a  matter  of  but  a  few  minutes  for  the  girl  to 
lift  down  and  lay  to  either  side  the  ends 
of  the  rails  that  formed  one  of  the  angles. 
This  done,  the  old  woman  easily  stepped  across 
the  remaining  two  or  three  rails.  It  was  only 
a  moment  before  they  stood  by  the  wounded 
man.  He  was  lying  still,  breathing  regularly, 
and  seemingly  asleep. 


CICELY'S  DREAM  141 

"  What  is  he,  granny,"  asked  the  girl 
anxiously,  "a  w'ite  man,  or  not?" 

Old  Dinah  pushed  back  the  matted  hair 
from  the  wounded  man's  brow,  and  looked  at 
the  skin  beneath.  It  was  fairer  there,  but 
yet  of  a  decided  brown.  She  raised  his  hand, 
pushed  back  the  tattered  sleeve  from  his  wrist, 
and  then  she  laid  his  hand  down  gently. 

"  Mos'  lackly  he  's  a  mulatter  man  f  'om 
up  de  country  somewhar.  He  don'  look  lack 
dese  yer  niggers  roun'  yere,  ner  yet  lack  a 
w'ite  man.  But  de  po'  boy  's  in  a  bad  fix, 
w'ateber  he  is,  an'  I  'spec's  we  bettah  do  w'at 
we  kin  fer  'im,  an'  w'en  he  comes  to  he  '11 
tell  us  w'at  he  is  —  er  w'at  he  calls  hisse'f . 
Hoi'  'is  head  up,  chile,  an'  I  '11  po'  a  drop  er 
dis  yer  liquor  down  his  th'oat ;  dat  '11  bring 
'im  to  quicker  'n  anything  e'se  I  knows." 

Cicely  lifted  the  sick  man's  head,  and 
Dinah  poured  a  few  drops  of  the  whiskey 
between  his  teeth.  He  swallowed  it  readily 
enough.  In  a  few  minutes  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  stared  blankly  at  the  two  women.  Cicely 
saw  that  his  eyes  were  large  and  black,  and 
glistening  with  fever. 

"  How  you  feelin',  suh  ?  "  asked  the  old 
woman. 


142  CICELY'S  DREAM 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Is  you  f eelin'  bettah  now  ?  " 

The  wounded  man  kept  on  staring  blankly. 
Suddenly  he  essayed  to  put  his  hand  to  his 
head,  gave  a  deep  groan,  and  fell  back  again 
unconscious. 

"  He  's  gone  ag'in,"  said  Dinah.  "  I 
reckon  we  '11  hafter  tote  'im  up  ter  de  house 
and  take  keer  er  'im  dere.  Wite  folks 
would  n't  want  ter  fool  wid  a  nigger  man,  an' 
we  doan  know  who  his  folks  is.  He  's  outer 
his  head  an'  will  be  fer  some  time  yet,  an'  we 
can't  tell  nuthin'  'bout  'im  tel  he  comes  ter 
his  senses." 

Cicely  lifted  the  wounded  man  by  the  arms 
and  shoulders.  She  was  strong,  with  the 
strength  of  youth  and  a  sturdy  race.  The 
man  was  pitifully  emaciated  ;  how  much,  the 
two  women  had  not  suspected  until  they 
raised  him.  They  had  no  difficulty  whatever, 
except  for  the  awkwardness  of  such  a  burden, 
in  lifting  him  over  the  fence  and  carrying 
him  through  the  cornfield  to  the  cabin. 

They  laid  him  on  Cicely's  bed  in  the  little 
lean-to  shed  that  formed  a  room  separate  from 
the  main  apartment  of  the  cabin.  The  old 
woman  sent  Cicely  to  cook  the  dinner,  while 


CICELY'S  DREAM  143 

she  gave  her  own  attention  exclusively  to 
the  still  unconscious  man.  She  brought  water 
and  washed  him  as  though  he  were  a  child. 

"  Po'  boy/'  she  said,  "  he  doan  feel  lack 
he  's  be'n  eatin'  miff  to  feed  a  sparrer.  He 
'pears  ter  be  mos'  starved  ter  def." 

She  washed  his  wound  more  carefully,  made 
some  lint, — the  art  was  well  known  in  the 
sixties, — and  dressed  his  wound  with  a  fair 
degree  of  skill. 

"  Somebody  must  'a'  be'n  tryin'  ter  put  yo' 
light  out,  chile,"  she  muttered  to  herself  as 
she  adjusted  the  bandage  around  his  head. 
"  A  little  higher  er  a  little  lower,  an'  you 
would  n'  'a'  be'n  yere  ter  tell  de  tale.  Dem 
clo's,"  she  argued,  lifting  the  tattered  gar- 
ments she  had  removed  from  her  patient, 
"  don'  b'long  'roun'  yere.  Dat  kinder  weavin' 
come  f'om  down  to'ds  Souf  Ca'lina.  I  wish 
Needham  'u'd  come  erlong.  He  kin  tell  who 
dis  man  is,  an'  all  erbout  'im." 

She  made  a  bowl  of  gruel,  and  fed  it,  drop 
by  drop,  to  the  sick  man.  This  roused  him 
somewhat  from  his  stupor,  but  when  Dinah 
thought  he  had  enough  of  the  gruel,  and 
stopped  feeding  him,  he  closed  his  eyes  again 
and  relapsed  into  a  heavy  sleep  that  was  so 


144  CICELY'S  DREAM 

closely  akin  to  unconsciousness  as  to  be 
scarcely  distinguishable  from  it. 

When  old  Needham  came  home  at  noon, 
his  wife,  who  had  been  anxiously  awaiting 
his  return,  told  him  in  a  few  words  the  story 
of  Cicely's  discovery  and  of  the  subsequent 
events. 

Needham  inspected  the  stranger  with  a  pro- 
fessional eye.  He  had  been  something  of  a 
plantation  doctor  in  his  day,  and  was  known 
far  and  wide  for  his  knowledge  of  simple 
remedies.  The  negroes  all  around,  as  well  as 
many  of  the  poorer  white  people,  came  to  him 
for  the  treatment  of  common  ailments. 

"  He 's  got  a  f evuh,"  he  said,  after  feeling 
the  patient's  pulse  and  laying  his  hand  on 
his  brow,  "  an'  we  '11  haf ter  gib  'im  some  yarb 
tea  an'  nuss  'im  tel  de  fevuh  w'ars  off.  I 
'spec',"  he  added,  "  dat  I  knows  whar  dis 
boy  come  f'om.  He  's  mos'  lackly  one  er  dem 
bright  mulatters,  f'om  Robeson  County — 
some  of  'em  call  deyse'ves  Croatan  Injins  — 
w'at's  been  conscripted  an'  sent  ter  wu'k  on 
de  fo'tifications  down  at  Wimbleton  er  some- 
'er's  er  nuther,  an'  done  'scaped,  and  got  mos' 
killed  gittin'  erway,  an'  wuz  n'  none  too  well 
fed  befo',  an'  nigh  'bout  starved  ter  def  sence. 


CICELY'S  DREAM  145 

We  '11  hafter  hide  dis  man,  er  e'se  we  is 
lackly  ter  git  inter  trouble  ou'se'ves  by  harb'- 
rin'  'im.  Ef  dey  ketch  'im  yere,  dey  's  liable 
ter  take  'im  out  an'  shoot  'im  —  an'  des  ez 
lackly  us  too." 

Cicely  was  listening  with  bated  breath. 

"Oh,  gran'daddy,"  she  cried  with  trem- 
bling voice,  "don'  let  'em  ketch  'im  !  Hide 
'im  somewhar." 

"  I  reckon  we  '11  leave  'im  yere  f er  a  day  er 
so.  Ef  he  had  come  f'om  roun'  yere  I  'd  be 
skeered  ter  keep  'im,  fer  de  w'ite  folks  'u'd 
prob'ly  be  lookin'  fer  'im.  But  I  knows  ev'y- 
body  w'at  's  be'n  conscripted  fer  ten  miles 
'roun',  an'  dis  yere  boy  don'  b'long  in  dis 
neighborhood.  Wen  'e  gits  so  'e  kin  he'p 
'isse'f  we'll  put  'im  up  in  de  lof '  an'  hide  'im 
till  de  Yankees  come.  Fer  dey  're  comin', 
sho'.  I  dremp'  las'  night  dey  wuz  close  ter 
han',  and  I  hears  de  w'ite  folks  talkin'  ter 
deyse'ves  'bout  it.  An'  de  time  is  comin' 
w'en  de  good  Lawd  gwine  ter  set  his  people 
free,  an'  it  ain'  gwine  ter  be  long,  nuther." 

Needham's  prophecy  proved  true.  In  less 
than  a  week  the  Confederate  garrison  evacu- 
ated the  arsenal  in  the  neighboring  town  of 
Pates ville,  blew  up  the  buildings,  destroyed 


146  CICELY'S  DEE  AM 

the  ordnance  and  stores,  and  retreated  across 
the  Cape  Fear  River,  burning  the  river  bridge 
behind  them,  —  two  acts  of  war  afterwards 
unjustly  attributed  to  General  Sherman's 
army,  which  followed  close  upon  the  heels 
of  the  retreating  Confederates. 

When  there  was  no  longer  any  fear  for 
the  stranger's  safety,  no  more  pains  were 
taken  to  conceal  him.  His  wound  had  healed 
rapidly,  and  in  a  week  he  had  been  able  with 
some  help  to  climb  up  the  ladder  into  the 
loft.  In  all  this  time,  however,  though  appar- 
ently conscious,  he  had  said  no  word  to  any 
one,  nor  had  he  seemed  to  comprehend  a 
word  that  was  spoken  to  him. 

Cicely  had  been  his  constant  attendant. 
After  the  first  day,  during  which  her  granny 
had  nursed  him,  she  had  sat  by  his  bedside, 
had  fanned  his  fevered  brow,  had  held  food 
and  water  and  medicine  to  his  lips.  When  it 
was  safe  for  him  to  come  down  from  the  loft 
and  sit  in  a  chair  under  a  spreading  oak, 
Cicely  supported  him  until  he  was  strong 
enough  to  walk  about  the  yard.  When  his 
strength  had  increased  sufficiently  to  permit 
of  greater  exertion,  she  accompanied  him  on 
long  rambles  in  the  fields  and  woods. 


CICELY'S  DREAM  147 

In  spite  of  his  gain  in  physical  strength, 
the  newcomer  changed  very  little  in  other  re- 
spects. For  a  long  time  he  neither  spoke  nor 
smiled.  To  questions  put  to  him  he  simply 
gave  no  reply,  but  looked  at  his  questioner 
with  the  blank  unconsciousness  of  an  infant. 
By  and  by  he  began  to  recognize  Cicely,  and 
to  smile  at  her  approach.  The  next  step  in 
returning  consciousness  was  but  another  mani- 
festation of  the  same  sentiment.  When  Cicely 
would  leave  him  he  would  look  his  regret, 
and  be  restless  and  uneasy  until  she  returned. 

The  family  were  at  a  loss  what  to  call  him. 
To  any  inquiry  as  to  his  name  he  answered 
no  more  than  to  other  questions. 

"  He  come  jes'  befo'  Sherman,"  said  Need- 
ham,  after  a  few  weeks,  "lack  John  de  Bap- 
tis'  befo'  de  Lawd.  I  reckon  we  bettah  call 
'im  John." 

So  they  called  him  John.  He  soon  learned 
the  name.  As  time  went  on  Cicely  found 
that  he  was  quick  at  learning  things.  She 
taught  him  to  speak  her  own  negro  English, 
which  he  pronounced  with  absolute  fidelity  to 
her  intonations  ;  so  that  barring  the  quality  of 
his  voice,  his  speech  was  an  echo  of  Cicely's 
own. 


148  CICELY'S  DEE  AM 

The  summer  wore  away  and  the  autumn 
came.  John  and  Cicely  wandered  in  the 
woods  together  and  gathered  walnuts,  and 
chinquapins  and  wild  grapes.  When  harvest 
time  came,  they  worked  in  the  fields  side  by 
side,  —  plucked  the  corn,  pulled  the  fodder, 
and  gathered  the  dried  peas  from  the  yellow 
pea-vines.  Cicely  was  a  phenomenal  cotton- 
picker,  and  John  accompanied  her  to  the 
fields  and  stayed  by  her  hours  at  a  time, 
though  occasionally  he  would  complain  of  his 
head,  and  sit  under  a  tree  and  rest  part  of  the 
day  while  Cicely  worked,  the  two  keeping  one 
another  always  in  sight. 

They  did  not  have  a  great  deal  of  inter- 
course with  other  people.  Young  men  came 
to  the  cabin  sometimes  to  see  Cicely,  but 
when  they  found  her  entirely  absorbed  in  the 
stranger  they  ceased  their  visits.  For  a  time 
Cicely  kept  him  away,  as  much  as  possible, 
from  others,  because  she  did  not  wish  them  to 
see  that  there  was  anything  wrong  about  him. 
This  was  her  motive  at  first,  but  after  a  while 
she  kept  him  to  herself  simply  because  she 
was  happier  so.  He  was  hers  —  hers  alone. 
She  had  found  him,  as  Pharaoh's  daughter 
had  found  Moses  in  the  bulrushes ;  she  had 


CICELY'S  DREAM  149 

taught  him  to  speak,  to  think,  to  love.  She 
had  not  taught  him  to  remember ;  she  would 
not  have  wished  him  to  ;  she  would  have  been 
jealous  of  any  past  to  which  he  might  have 
proved  bound  by  other  ties.  Her  dream  so 
far  had  come  true.  She  had  found  him  ;  he 
loved  her.  The  rest  of  it  would  as  surely  fol- 
low, and  that  before  long.  For  dreams  were 
serious  things,  and  time  had  proved  hers  to 
have  been  not  a  presage  of  misfortune,  but 
one  of  the  beneficent  visions  that  are  sent, 
that  we  may  enjoy  by  anticipation  the  good 
things  that  are  in  store  for  us. 


Ill 

But  a  short  interval  of  time  elapsed  after 
the  passage  of  the  warlike  host  that  swept 
through  North  Carolina,  until  there  appeared 
upon  the  scene  the  vanguard  of  a  second 
army,  which  came  to  bring  light  and  the 
fruits  of  liberty  to  a  land  which  slavery  and 
the  havoc  of  war  had  brought  to  ruin.  It  is 
fashionable  to  assume  that  those  who  under- 
took the  political  rehabilitation  of  the  South- 
ern States  merely  rounded  out  the  ruin  that 
the  war  had  wrought  —  merely  ploughed  up 


150  CICELY'S  DREAM 

the  desolate  land  and  sowed  it  with  salt. 
Perhaps  the  gentler  judgments  of  the  future 
may  recognize  that  their  task  was  a  difficult 
one,  and  that  wiser  and  honester  men  might 
have  failed  as  egregiously.  It  may  even,  in 
time,  be  conceded  that  some  good  came  out  of 
the  carpet-bag  governments,  as,  for  instance, 
the  establishment  of  a  system  of  popular  edu- 
cation in  the  former  slave  States.  Where  it 
had  been  a  crime  to  teach  people  to  read  or 
write,  a  schoolhouse  dotted  every  hillside,  and 
the  State  provided  education  for  rich  and 
poor,  for  white  and  black  alike.  Let  us  lay 
at  least  this  token  upon  the  grave  of  the  car- 
pet-baggers. The  evil  they  did  lives  after 
them,  and  the  statute  of  limitations  does  not 
seem  to  run  against  it.  It  is  but  just  that 
we  should  not  forget  the  good. 

Long,  however,  before  the  work  of  political 
reconstruction  had  begun,  a  brigade  of  Yankee 
schoolmasters  and  schoolma'ams  had  invaded 
Dixie,  and  one  of  the  latter  had  opened  a 
Freedman's  Bureau  School  in  the  town  of 
Patesville,  about  four  miles  from  Needham 
Green's  cabin  on  the  neighboring  sandhills. 

It  had  been  quite  a  surprise  to  Miss  Chand- 
ler's Boston  friends  when  she  had  announced 


CICELY'S  DEE  AM  151 

her  intention  of  going  South  to  teach  the 
freedmen.  Rich,  accomplished,  beautiful,  and 
a  social  favorite,  she  was  giving  up  the  com- 
forts and  luxuries  of  Northern  life  to  go 
among  hostile  strangers,  where  her  associates 
would  be  mostly  ignorant  negroes.  Perhaps 
she  might  meet  occasionally  an  officer  of  some 
Federal  garrison,  or  a  traveler  from  the  North  ; 
but  to  all  intents  and  purposes  her  friends 
considered  her  as  going  into  voluntary  exile. 
But  heroism  was  not  rare  in  those  days,  and 
Martha  Chandler  was  only  one  of  the  great 
multitude  whose  hearts  went  out  toward  an 
oppressed  race,  and  who  freely  poured  out 
their  talents,  their  money,  their  lives,  —  what- 
ever God  had  given  them,  —  in  the  sublime 
and  not  unfruitful  effort  to  transform  three 
millions  of  slaves  into  intelligent  freemen. 
Miss  Chandler's  friends  knew,  too,  that  she 
had  met  a  great  sorrow,  and  more  than  sus- 
pected that  out  of  it  had  grown  her  determi- 
nation to  go  South. 

When  Cicely  Green  heard  that  a  school  for 
colored  people  had  been  opened  at  Patesville 
she  combed  her  hair,  put  on  her  Sunday  frock 
and  such  bits  of  finery  as  she  possessed,  and 
set  out  for  town  early  the  next  Monday  morn- 
ing. 


152  CICELY'S  DEE  AM 

There  were  many  who  came  to  learn  the 
new  gospel  of  education,  which  was  to  be  the 
cure  for  all  the  freedmen's  ills.  The  old  and 
gray-haired,  the  full-grown  man  and  woman, 
the  toddling  infant,  —  they  came  to  acquire 
the  new  and  wonderful  learning  that  was  to 
make  them  the  equals  of  the  white  people. 
It  was  the  teacher's  task,  by  no  means  an  easy 
one,  to  select  from  this  incongruous  mass  the 
most  promising  material,  and  to  distribute 
among  them  the  second-hand  books  and  cloth- 
ing that  were  sent,  largely  by  her  Boston 
friends,  to  aid  her  in  her  work ;  to  find  out 
what  they  knew,  to  classify  them  by  their 
intelligence  rather  than  by  their  knowledge, 
for  they  were  all  lamentably  ignorant.  Some 
among  them  were  the  children  of  parents  who 
had  been  free  before  the  war,  and  of  these 
some  few  could  read  and  one  or  two  could 
write.  One  paragon,  who  could  repeat  the 
multiplication  table,  was  immediately  pro- 
moted to  the  position  of  pupil  teacher. 

Miss  Chandler  took  a  liking  to  the  tall  girl 
who  had  come  so  far  to  sit  under  her  instruc- 
tion. There  was  a  fine,  free  air  in  her  bear- 
ing, a  lightness  in  her  step,  a  sparkle  in  her 
eye,  that   spoke    of    good    blood,  —  whether 


CICELY'S  DEE  AM  153 

fused  by  nature  in  its  own  alembic,  out  of 
material  despised  and  spurned  of  men,  or 
whether  some  obscure  ancestral  strain,  the 
teacher  could  not  tell.  The  girl  proved  in- 
telligent and  learned  rapidly,  indeed  seemed 
almost  feverishly  anxious  to  learn.  She  was 
quiet,  and  was,  though  utterly  untrained,  in- 
stinctively polite,  and  profited  from  the  first 
day  by  the  example  of  her  teacher's  quiet  ele- 
gance. The  teacher  dressed  in  simple  black. 
When  Cicely  came  back  to  school  the  second 
day,  she  had  left  off  her  glass  beads  and  her 
red  ribbon,  and  had  arranged  her  hair  as 
nearly  like  the  teacher's  as  her  skill  and  its 
quality  would  permit. 

The  teacher  was  touched  by  these  efforts 
at  imitation,  and  by  the  intense  devotion 
Cicely  soon  manifested  toward  her.  It  was 
not  a  sycophantic,  troublesome  devotion,  that 
made  itself  a  burden  to  its  object.  It  found 
expression  in  little  things  done  rather  than 
in  any  words  the  girl  said.  To  the  degree 
that  the  attraction  was  mutual,  Martha  recog- 
nized in  it  a  sort  of  freemasonry  of  tem- 
perament that  drew  them  together  in  spite 
of  the  differences  between  them.  Martha 
felt  sometimes,  in  the   vague  way  that   one 


154  CICELY'S  DREAM 

speculates  about  the  impossible,  that  if  she 
were  brown,  and  had  been  brought  up  in 
North  Carolina,  she  would  be  like  Cicely ; 
and  that  if  Cicely's  ancestors  had  come  over 
in  the  Mayflower,  and  Cicely  had  been  reared 
on  Beacon  Street,  in  the  shadow  of  the  State 
House  dome,  Cicely  would  have  been  very 
much  like  herself. 

Miss  Chandler  was  lonely  sometimes.  Her 
duties  kept  her  occupied  all  day.  On  Sun- 
days she  taught  a  Bible  class  in  the  school- 
room. Correspondence  with  bureau  officials 
and  friends  at  home  furnished  her  with  addi- 
tional occupation.  At  times,  nevertheless,  she 
felt  a  longing  for  the  company  of  women 
of  her  own  race;  but  the  white  ladies  of  the 
town  did  not  call,  even  in  the  most  formal 
way,  upon  the  Yankee  school-teacher.  Miss 
Chandler  was  therefore  fain  to  do  the  best 
she  could  with  such  companionship  as  was 
available.  She  took  Cicely  to  her  home  occa- 
sionally, and  asked  her  once  to  stay  all  night. 
Thinking,  however,  that  she  detected  a  re- 
luctance on  the  girl's  part  to  remain  away 
from  home,  she  did  not  repeat  her  invita- 
tion. 

Cicely,  indeed,  was  filling  a  double    role. 


CICELY'S  DREAM  155 

The  learning  acquired  from  Miss  Chandler 
she  imparted  to  John  at  home.  Every  even- 
ni&?  by  the  light  of  the  pine-knots  blazing  on 
Needham's  ample  hearth,  she  taught  John  to 
read  the  simple  words  she  had  learned  during 
the  day.  Why  she  did  not  take  him  to  school 
she  had  never  asked  herself ;  there  were  several 
other  pupils  as  old  as  he  seemed  to  be.  Per- 
haps she  still  thought  it  necessary  to  protect 
him  from  curious  remark.  He  worked  with 
Needham  by  day,  and  she  could  see  him  at 
night,  and  all  of  Saturdays  and  Sundays. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  jealous  selfishness  of  love. 
She  had  found  him ;  he  was  hers.  In  the 
spring,  when  school  was  over,  her  granny  had 
said  that  she  might  marry  him.  Till  then  her 
dream  would  not  yet  have  come  true,  and  she 
must  keep  him  to  herself.  And  yet  she  did 
not  wish  him  to  lose  this  golden  key  to  the 
avenues  of  opportunity.  She  would  not  take 
him  to  school,  but  she  would  teach  him  each 
day  all  that  she  herself  had  learned.  He  was 
not  difficult  to  teach,  but  learned,,  indeed, 
with  what  seemed  to  Cicely  marvelous  ease, 
—  always,  however,  by  her  lead,  and  never  of 
his  own  initiative.  For  while  he  could  do  a 
man's  work,  he  was  in  most  things  but  a  child, 


156  CICELY'S   DREAM 

without  a  child's  curiosity.  His  love  for 
Cicely  appeared  the  only  thing  for  which  he 
needed  no  suggestion ;  and  even  that  pos- 
sessed an  element  of  childish  dependence 
that  would  have  seemed,  to  minds  trained  to 
thoughtful  observation,  infinitely  pathetic. 

The  spring  came  and  cotton-planting  time. 
The  children  began  to  drop  out  of  Miss 
Chandler's  school  one  by  one,  as  their  services 
were  required  at  home.  Cicely  was  among 
those  who  intended  to  remain  in  school  until 
the  term  closed  with  the  "  exhibition,"  in 
which  she  was  assigned  a  leading  part.  She 
had  selected  her  recitation,  or  "  speech," 
from  among  half  a  dozen  poems  that  her 
teacher  had  suggested,  and  to  memorizing  it 
she  devoted  considerable  time  and  study. 
The  exhibition,  as  the  first  of  its  kind,  was 
sure  to  be  a  notable  event.  The  parents  and 
friends  of  the  children  were  invited  to  attend, 
and  a  colored  church,  recently  erected,  —  the 
largest  available  building,  —  was  secured  as 
the  place  where  the  exercises  should  take 
place. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eventful  day,  uncle 
Needham,  assisted  by  John,  harnessed  the 
mule   to  the  two-wheeled   cart,  on  which    a 


CICELY'S  DEE  AM  157 

couple  of  splint-bottomed  chairs  were  fastened 
to  accommodate  Dinah  and  Cicely.  John  put 
on  his  best  clothes,  —  an  ill-fitting  suit  of 
blue  jeans,  —  a  round  wool  hat,  a  pair  of 
coarse  brogans,  a  homespun  shirt,  and  a 
bright  blue  necktie.  Cicely  wore  her  best 
frock,  a  red  ribbon  at  her  throat,  another  in 
her  hair,  and  carried  a  bunch  of  flowers  in 
her  hand.  Uncle  Needham  and  aunt  Dinah 
were  also  in  holiday  array.  Needham  and 
John  took  their  seats  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
cart-frame,  with  their  feet  dangling  down, 
and  thus  the  equipage  set  out  leisurely  for 
the  town. 

Cicely  had  long  looked  forward  impatiently 
to  this  day.  She  was  going  to  marry  John 
the  next  week,  and  then  her  dream  would 
have  come  entirely  true.  But  even  this  an- 
ticipated happiness  did  not  overshadow  the 
importance  of  the  present  occasion,  which 
would  be  an  epoch  in  her  life,  a  day  of  joy 
and  triumph.  She  knew  her  speech  per- 
fectly, and  timidity  was  not  one  of  her  weak- 
nesses. She  knew  that  the  red  ribbons  set 
off  her  dark  beauty  effectively,  and  that  her 
dress  fitted  neatly  the  curves  of  her  shapely 
figure.     She  confidently  expected  to  win  the 


158  CICELY'S  DREAM 

first  prize,  a  large  morocco-covered  Bible, 
offered  by  Miss  Chandler  for  the  best  exer- 
cise. 

Cicely  and  her  companions  soon  arrived  at 
Patesville.  Their  entrance  into  the  church 
made  quite  a  sensation,  for  Cicely  was  not 
only  an  acknowledged  belle,  but  a  general 
favorite,  and  to  John  there  attached  a  tinge 
of  mystery  which  inspired  a  respect  not  be- 
stowed upon  those  who  had  grown  up  in  the 
neighborhood.  Cicely  secured  a  seat  in  the 
front  part  of  the  church,  next  to  the  aisle,  in 
the  place  reserved  for  the  pupils.  As  the 
house  was  already  partly  filled  by  townspeo- 
ple when  the  party  from  the  country  arrived, 
Needham  and  his  wife  and  John  were  forced 
to  content  themselves  with  places  somewhat 
in  the  rear  of  the  room,  from  which  they 
could  see  and  hear  what  took  place  on  the 
platform,  but  where  they  were  not  at  all 
conspicuously  visible  to  those  at  the  front  of 
the  church. 

The  schoolmistress  had  not  yet  arrived, 
and  order  was  preserved  in  the  audience  by 
two  of  the  elder  pupils,  adorned  with  large 
rosettes  of  red,  white,  and  blue,  who  ushered 
the    most    important    visitors    to    the    seats 


CICELY'S  DREAM  159 

reserved  for  them.  A  national  flag  was 
gracefully  draped  over  the  platform,  and 
under  it  hung  a  lithograph  of  the  Great 
Emancipator,  for  it  was  thus  these  people 
thought  of  him.  He  had  saved  the  Union, 
but  the  Union  had  never  meant  anything 
good  to  them.  He  had  proclaimed  liberty  to 
the  captive,  which  meant  all  to  them ;  and  to 
them  he  was  and  would  ever  be  the  Great 
Emancipator. 

The  schoolmistress  came  in  at  a  rear  door 
and  took  her  seat  upon  the  platform.  Martha 
was  dressed  in  white  ;  for  once  she  had  laid 
aside  the  sombre  garb  in  which  alone  she  had 
been  seen  since  her  arrival  at  Patesville.  She 
wore  a  yellow  rose  at  her  throat,  a  bunch  of 
jasmine  in  her  belt.  A  sense  of  responsi- 
bility for  the  success  of  the  exhibition  had 
deepened  the  habitual  seriousness  of  her  face, 
yet  she  greeted  the  audience  with  a  smile. 

"  Don'  Miss  Chan'ler  look  sweet,"  whis- 
pered the  little  girls  to  one  another,  devour- 
ing her  beauty  with  sparkling  eyes,  their  lips 
parted  over  a  wealth  of  ivory. 

"  De  Lawd  will  bress  dat  chile,"  said  one 
old  woman,  in  soliloquy.  "  I  t'ank  de  good 
Marster  I 's  libbed  ter  see  dis  day." 


160  CICELY'S  DREAM 

Even  envy  could  not  hide  its  noisome 
head  :  a  pretty  quadroon  whispered  to  her 
neighbor :  — 

"  I  don't  b'liebe  she  's  natch'ly  ez  white  ez 
dat.  I  'spec'  she  's  be'n  powd'rin'  !  An'  I 
know  all  dat  hair  can't  be  her'n ;  she  's  got 
on  a  switch,  sho  's  you  bawn." 

"  You  knows  dat  ain'  so,  Ma'y  'Liza  Smif," 
rejoined  the  other,  with  a  look  of  stern  dis- 
approval ;  "  you  knows  dat  ain'  so.  You  'd 
gib  yo'  everlastin'  soul  'f  you  wuz  ez  white  ez 
Miss  Chan'ler,  en  yo'  ha'r  wuz  ez  long  ez 
her'n." 

"  By  Jove,  Maxwell !  "  exclaimed  a  young 
officer,  who  belonged  to  the  Federal  garrison 
stationed  in  the  town,  "  but  that  girl  is  a 
beauty."  The  speaker  and  a  companion  were 
in  fatigue  uniform,  and  had  merely  dropped 
in  for  an  hour  between  garrison  duty.  The 
ushers  had  wished  to  give  them  seats  on  the 
platform,  but  they  had  declined,  thinking 
that  perhaps  their  presence  there  might  em- 
barrass the  teacher.  They  sought  rather  to 
avoid  observation  by  sitting  behind  a  pillar 
in  the  rear  of  the  room,  around  which  they 
could  see  without  attracting  undue  attention. 

"  To  think,"  the  lieutenant  went  on,  "  of 


CICELY'S  DREAM  161 

that  Junonian  figure,  those  lustrous  orbs, 
that  golden  coronal,  that  flower  of  Northern 
civilization,  being  wasted  on  these  barba- 
rians !  "  The  speaker  uttered  an  exagger- 
ated but  suppressed  groan. 

His  companion,  a  young  man  of  clean- 
shaven face  and  serious  aspect,  nodded  assent, 
but  whispered  reprovingly,  — 

"  'Sh  !  some  one  will  hear  you.  The  exer- 
cises are  goino-  to  begin." 

When  Miss  Chandler  stepped  forward  to 
announce  the  hymn  to  be  sung  by  the  school 
as  the  first  exercise,  every  eye  in  the  room 
was  fixed  upon  her,  except  John's,  which  saw 
only  Cicely.  When  the  teacher  had  uttered 
a  few  words,  he  looked  up  to  her,  and  from 
that  moment  did  not  take  his  eyes  off 
Martha's  face. 

After  the  singing,  a  little  girl,  dressed  in 
white,  crossed  by  ribbons  of  red  and  blue, 
recited  with  much  spirit  a  patriotic  poem. 

When  Martha  announced  the  third  exer- 
cise, John's  face  took  on  a  more  than  usually 
animated  expression,  and  there  was  a  percep- 
tible deepening  of  the  troubled  look  in  his 
eyes,  never  entirely  absent  since  Cicely  had 
found  him  in  the  woods. 


162  CICELY'S  BEE  AM 

A  little  yellow  boy,  with  long  curls,  and 
a  frightened  air,  next  ascended  the  platform. 

"  Now,  Jimmie,  be  a  man,  and  speak  right 
out,"  whispered  his  teacher,  tapping  his  arm 
reassuringly  with  her  fan  as  he  passed  her. 

Jimmie  essayed  to  recite  the  lines  so  fa- 
miliar to  a  past  generation  of  schoolchil- 
dren :  — 

"  I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 

Who  four  small  children  had  ; 
The  eldest  was  hut  six  years  old, 
A  gentle,  modest  lad." 

He  ducked  his  head  hurriedly  in  a  futile 
attempt  at  a  bow;  then,  following  instruc- 
tions previously  given  him,  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  a  large  cardboard  motto  hanging  on 
the  rear  wall  of  the  room,  which  admonished 
him  in  bright  red  letters  to 

"  Always  Speak  The  Truth," 

and  started  off  with  assumed  confidence  — 

"  I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 
Who  "  — 

At  this  point,  drawn  by  an  irresistible  impulse, 
his  eyes  sought  the  level  of  the  audience. 
Ah,  fatal  blunder  !  He  stammered,  but  with 
an  effort  raised  his  eyes  and  began  again  : 


CICELY'S  DREAM  163 

"  I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 
Who  four"  — 

Again  his  treacherous  eyes  fell,  and  his  little 
remaining  self-possession  utterly  forsook  him. 
He  made  one  more  despairing  effort :  — 

"  I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 
Who  four  small  "  — 

and  then,  bursting  into  tears,  turned  and 
fled  amid  a  murmur  of  sympathy. 

Jimmie's  inglorious  retreat  was  covered  by 
the  singing  in  chorus  of  "  The  Star-spangled 
Banner,"  after  which  Cicely  Green  came  for- 
ward to  recite  her  poem. 

"  By  Jove,  Maxwell !  "  whispered  the  young 
officer,  who  was  evidently  a  connoisseur  of 
female  beauty,  "  that  is  n't  bad  for  a  bronze 
Venus.     I  '11  tell  you  "  — 

"  'Sh  !  "  said  the  other.     "  Keep  still." 

When  Cicely  finished  her  recitation,  the 
young  officers  began  »to  applaud,  but  stopped 
suddenly  in  some  confusion  as  they  realized 
that  they  were  the  only  ones  in  the  audience 
so  engaged.  The  colored  people  had  either 
not  learned  how  to  express  their  approval  in 
orthodox  fashion,  or  else  their  respect  for  the 
sacred  character  of  the  edifice  forbade  any 
such  demonstration.     Their  enthusiasm  found 


164  CICELY'S  DREAM 

vent,  however,  in  a  subdued  murmur,  empha- 
sized by  numerous  nods  and  winks  and  sup- 
pressed exclamations.  During  the  singing 
that  followed  Cicely's  recitation  the  two 
officers  quietly  withdrew,  their  duties  calling 
them  away  at  this  hour. 

At  the  close  of  the  exercises,  a  committee 
on  prizes  met  in  the  vestibule,  and  unani- 
mously decided  that  Cicely  Green  was  entitled 
to  the  first  prize.  Proudly  erect,  with  spar- 
kling eyes  and  cheeks  flushed  with  victory, 
Cicely  advanced  to  the  platform  to  receive  the 
coveted  reward.  As  she  turned  away,  her 
eyes,  shining  with  gratified  vanity,  sought 
those  of  her  lover. 

John  sat  bent  slightly  forward  in  an  attitude 
of  strained  attention ;  and  Cicely's  triumph 
lost  half  its  value  when  she  saw  that  it  was 
not  at  her,  but  at  Miss  Chandler,  that  his 
look  was  directed.  Though  she  watched  him 
thenceforward,  not  one  glance  did  he  vouch- 
safe to  his  jealous  sweetheart,  and  never  for 
an  instant  withdrew  his  eyes  from  Martha,  or 
relaxed  the  unnatural  intentness  of  his  ^aze. 
The  imprisoned  mind,  stirred  to  unwonted 
effort,  was  struggling  for  liberty  ;  and  from 
Martha  had  come  the  first  ray  of  outer  light 
that  had  penetrated  its  dungeon. 


CICELY'S  DEEAM  165 

Before  the  audience  was  dismissed,  the 
teacher  rose  to  bid  her  school  farewell. 
Her  intention  was  to  take  a  vacation  of  three 
months;  but  what  might  happen  in  that  time 
she  did  not  know,  and  there  were  duties  at 
home  of  such  apparent  urgency  as  to  render 
her  return  to  North  Carolina  at  least  doubtful ; 
so  that  in  her  own  heart  her  au  revoir  sounded 
very  much  like  a  farewell. 

She  spoke  to  them  of  the  hopeful  progress 
they  had  made,  and  praised  them  for  their 
eager  desire  to  learn.  She  told  them  of  the 
serious  duties  of  life,  and  of  the  use  they 
should  make  of  their  acquirements.  With 
prophetic  ringer  she  pointed  them  to  the  up- 
ward way  which  they  must  climb  with  patient 
feet  to  raise  themselves  out  of  the  depths. 

Then,  an  unusual  thing  with  her,  she 
spoke  of  herself.  Her  heart  was  full ;  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  maintained  her  com- 
posure ;  for  the  faces  that  confronted  her 
were  kindly  faces,  and  not  critical,  and  some 
of  them  she  had  learned  to  love  right  well. 

"  I  am  going  away  from  you,  my  children," 
she  said  ;  "  but  before  I  go  I  want  to  tell  you 
how  I  came  to  be  in  North  Carolina ;  so  that 
if  I  have  been  able  to  do  anything  here  among 


166  CICELY'S  DREAM 

you  for  which  you  might  feel  inclined,  in  your 
good  nature,  to  thank  me,  you  may  thank  not 
me  alone,  but  another  who  came  before  me, 
and  whose  work  I  have  but  taken  up  where  he 
laid  it  down.     I  had  a  friend,  —  a  dear  friend, 

—  why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  say  it  ?  —  a 
lover,  to  whom  I  was  to  be  married,  —  as  I 
hope  all  you  girls  may  some  day  be  happily 
married.  His  country  needed  him,  and  I 
gave  him  up.  He  came  to  fight  for  the  Union 
and  for  Freedom,  for  he  believed  that  all  men 
are  brothers.     He  did  not  come  back  again 

—  he  gave  up  his  life  for  you.  Could  I 
do  less  than  he  ?  I  came  to  the  land  that  he 
sanctified  by  his  death,  and  I  have  tried  in  my 
weak  way  to  tend  the  plant  he  watered  with 
his  blood,  and  which,  in  the  fullness  of  time, 
will  blossom  forth  into  the  perfect  flower  of 
liberty." 

She  could  say  no  more,  and  as  the  whole 
audience  thrilled  in  sympathy  with  her  emo- 
tion, there  was  a  hoarse  cry  from  the  men's 
side  of  the  room,  and  John  forced  his  way  to 
the  aisle  and  rushed  forward  to  the  platform. 

"Martha!  Martha!" 

"  Arthur  !   0  Arthur  !  " 

Pent-up  love  burst  the  flood-gates  of  de- 


CICELY'S  DEE  AM  167 

spair  and  oblivion,  and  caught  these  two  young 
hearts  in  its  torrent.  Captain  Arthur  Carey, 
of  the  1st  Massachusetts,  long  since  reported 
missing,  and  mourned  as  dead,  was  restored  to 
reason  and  to  his  world. 

It  seemed  to  him  but  yesterday  that  he  had 
escaped  from  the  Confederate  prison  at  Salis- 
bury ;  that  in  an  encounter  with  a  guard  he 
had  received  a  wound  in  the  head  ;  that  he 
had  wandered  on  in  the  woods,  keeping  him- 
self alive  by  means  of  wild  berries,  with  now 
and  then  a  piece  of  bread  or  a  potato  from  a 
friendly  negro.  It  seemed  but  the  night  be- 
fore that  he  had  laid  himself  down,  tortured 
with  fever,  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  and  with 
no  hope  that  he  would  ever  rise  again.  From 
that  moment  his  memory  of  the  past  was  a 
blank  until  he  recognized  Martha  on  the  plat- 
form and  took  up  again  the  thread  of  his  for- 
mer existence  where  it  had  been  broken  off. 

And  Cicely  ?  Well,  there  is  often  another 
woman,  and  Cicely,  all  unwittingly  to  Carey 
or  to  Martha,  had  been  the  other  woman. 
For,  after  all,  her  beautiful  dream  had  been 
one  of  the  kind  that  go  by  contraries. 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 


When  it  is  said  that  it  was  done  to  please 
a  woman,  there  ought  perhaps  to  be  enough 
said  to  explain  anything;  for  what  a  man 
will  not  do  to  please  a  woman  is  yet  to  be 
discovered.  Nevertheless,  it  might  be  well  to 
state  a  few  preliminary  facts  to  make  it  clear 
why  young  Dick  Owens  tried  to  run  one  of 
his  father's  negro  men  off  to  Canada. 

In  the  early  fifties,  when  the  growth  of 
anti-slavery  sentiment  and  the  constant  drain 
of  fugitive  slaves  into  the  North  had  so 
alarmed  the  slaveholders  of  the  border  States 
as  to  lead  to  the  passage  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  a  young  white  man  from  Ohio,  moved 
by  compassion  for  the  sufferings  of  a  certain 
bondman  who  happened  to  have  a  "  hard  mas- 
ter," essayed  to  help  the  slave  to  freedom. 
The  attempt  was  discovered  and  frustrated ; 
the  abductor  was  tried  and  convicted  for  slave- 
stealing,  and  sentenced  to  a  term  of  imprison- 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  169 

ment  in  the  penitentiary.  His  death,  after 
the  expiration  of  only  a  small  part  of  the 
sentence,  from  cholera  contracted  while  nurs- 
ing stricken  fellow  prisoners,  lent  to  the  case 
a  melancholy  interest  that  made  it  famous  in 
anti-slavery  annals. 

Dick  Owens  had  attended  the  trial.  He 
was  a  youth  of  about  twenty-two,  intelligent, 
handsome,  and  amiable,  but  extremely  indo- 
lent, in  a  graceful  and  gentlemanly  way ;  or, 
as  old  Judge  Fenderson  put  it  more  than 
once,  he  was  lazy  as  the  Devil,  —  a  mere  figure 
of  speech,  of  course,  and  not  one  that  did 
justice  to  the  Enemy  of  Mankind.  When 
asked  why  he  never  did  anything  serious, 
Dick  would  good-naturedly  reply,  with  a  well- 
modulated  drawl,  that  he  did  n't  have  to.  His 
father  was  rich ;  there  was  but  one  other 
child,  an  unmarried  daughter,  who  because  of 
poor  health  would  probably  never  marry,  and 
Dick  was  therefore  heir  presumptive  to  a  large 
estate.  Wealth  or  social  position  he  did  not 
need  to  seek,  for  he  was  born  to  both.  Char- 
ity Lomax  had  shamed  him  into  studying  law, 
but  notwithstanding  an  hour  or  so  a  day  spent 
at  old  Judge  Fenderson's  office,  he  did  not 
make  remarkable  headway  in  his  legal  studies. 


170  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

"  What  Dick  needs,"  said  the  judge,  who 
was  fond  of  'tropes,  as  became  a  scholar,  and 
of  horses,  as  was  befitting  a  Kentuckian,  "  is 
the  whip  of  necessity,  or  the  spur  of  ambition. 
If  he  had  either,  he  would  soon  need  the 
snaffle  to  hold  him  back." 

But  all  Dick  required,  in  fact,  to  prompt 
him  to  the  most  remarkable  thing:  he  accom- 
plished  before  he  was  twenty-five,  was  a  mere 
suggestion  from  Charity  Lomax.  The  story 
was  never  really  known  to  but  two  persons 
until  after  the  war,  when  it  came  out  because 
it  was  a  good  story  and  there  was  no  particu- 
lar reason  for  its  concealment. 

Young  Owens  had  attended  the  trial  of  this 
slave-stealer,  or  martyr,  —  either  or  both,  — 
and,  when  it  was  over,  had  gone  to  call  on 
Charity  Lomax,  and,  while  they  sat  on  the 
veranda  after  sundown,  had  told  her  all  about 
the  trial.  He  was  a  good  talker,  as  his  career 
in  later  years  disclosed,  and  described  the  pro- 
ceedings very  graphically. 

"  I  confess,"  he  admitted,  "  that  while  my 
principles  were  against  the  prisoner,  my  sym- 
pathies were  on  his  side.  It  appeared  that  he 
was  of  good  family,  and  that  he  had  an  old 
father  and  mother,  respectable  people,  depend- 


THE  PASSING   OF  GBANDISON  171 

ent  upon  him  for  support  and  comfort  in  their 
declining  years.  He  had  been  led  into  the 
matter  by  pity  for  a  negro  whose  master  ought 
to  have  been  run  out  of  the  county  long  ago 
for  abusing  his  slaves.  If  it  had  been  merely 
a  question  of  old  Sam  Briggs's  negro,  nobody 
would  have  cared  anything  about  it.  But 
father  and  the  rest  of  them  stood  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  thing,  and  told  the  judge  so,  and 
the  fellow  was  sentenced  to  three  years  in  the 
penitentiary." 

Miss  Lomax  had  listened  with  lively  in- 
terest. 

"  I  've  always  hated  old  Sam  Briggs,"  she 
said  emphatically,  "  ever  since  the  time  he 
broke  a  negro's  leg  with  a  piece  of  cordwood. 
When  I  hear  of  a  cruel  deed  it  makes  the 
Quaker  blood  that  came  from  my  grandmo- 
ther assert  itself.  Personally  I  wish  that  all 
Sam  Briggs's  negroes  would  run  away.  As  for 
the  young  man,  I  regard  him  as  a  hero.  He 
dared  something  for  humanity.  I  could  love 
a  man  who  would  take  such  chances  for  the 
sake  of  others." 

"  Could  you  love  me,  Charity,  if  I  did 
something  heroic?  " 

"  You  never  will,  Dick.     You  're  too  lazy 


172  TEE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

for  any  use.  You  '11  never  do  anything 
harder  than  playing  cards  or  fox-hunting." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  sweetheart !  I  've  been 
courting  you  for  a  year,  and  it 's  the  hardest 
work  imaginable.  Are  you  never  going  to 
love  me  ?  "  he  pleaded. 

His  hand  sought  hers,  but  she  drew  it 
back  beyond  his  reach. 

"  I  '11  never  love  you,  Dick  Owens,  until 
you  have  done  something.  When  that  time 
comes,  I  '11  think  about  it." 

"  But  it  takes  so  long  to  do  anything  worth 
mentioning,  and  I  don't  want  to  wait.  One 
must  read  two  years  to  become  a  lawyer,  and 
work  five  more  to  make  a  reputation.  We 
shall  both  be  gray  by  then." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  rejoined.  "It 
does  n't  require  a  lifetime  for  a  man  to  prove 
that  he  is  a  man.  This  one  did  something, 
or  at  least  tried  to." 

"  Well,  I  'm  willing  to  attempt  as  much  as 
any  other  man.  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do,  sweetheart?     Give  me  a  test." 

"Oh,  dear  me!"  said  Charity,  "I  don't 
care  what  you  do,  so  you  do  something. 
Really,  come  to  think  of  it,  why  should  I 
care  whether  you  do  anything  or  not  ?  " 


THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON  173 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don 't  know  why  you  should, 
Charity,"  rejoined  Dick  humbly,  "  for  I  'm 
aware  that  I  'm  not  worthy  of  it." 

"  Except  that  I  do  hate,"  she  added,  re- 
lenting slightly,  "to  see  a  really  clever  man 
so  utterly  lazy  and  good  for  nothing." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear ;  a  word  of  praise 
from  you  has  sharpened  my  wits  already.  I 
have  an  idea  !  Will  you  love  me  if  I  run  a 
negro  off  to  Canada  ?  " 

"What  nonsense  !  "  said  Charity  scornfully. 
"  You  must  be  losing  your  wits.  Steal 
another  man's  slave,  indeed,  while  your  father 
owns  a  hundred  !  " 

"  Oh,  there  '11  be  no  trouble  about  that," 
responded  Dick  lightly  ;  "  I  '11  run  off  one  of 
the  old  man's  ;  we  've  got  too  many  anyway. 
It  may  not  be  quite  as  difficult  as  the  other 
man  found  it,  but  it  will  be  just  as  unlawful, 
and  will  demonstrate  what  I  am  capable  of." 

"  Seeing 's  believing,"  replied  Charity.  "  Of 
course,  what  you  are  talking  about  now  is 
merely  absurd.  I'm  going  away  for  three 
weeks,  to  visit  my  aunt  in  Tennessee.  If 
you  're  able  to  tell  me,  when  I  return,  that 
you  've  done  something  to  prove  your  quality, 
I  '11  —  well,  you  may  come  and  tell  me 
about  it." 


174  THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

II 

Young  Owens  got  up  about  nine  o'clock 
next  morning,  and  while  making  his  toilet 
put  some  questions  to  his  personal  attendant, 
a  rather  bright  looking  young  mulatto  of 
about  his  own  age. 

"  Tom,"  said  Dick. 

"  Yas,  Mars  Dick,"  responded  the  servant. 

"  I  'm  going  on  a  trip  North.  Would  you 
like  to  go  with  me  ?  " 

Now,  if  there  was  anything  that  Tom 
would  have  liked  to  make,  it  was  a  trip  North. 
It  was  something  he  had  long  contemplated 
in  the  abstract,  but  had  never  been  able  to 
muster  up  sufficient  courage  to  attempt  in  the 
concrete.  He  was  prudent  enough,  however, 
to  dissemble  his  feelings. 

"  I  would  n't  min'  it,  Mars  Dick,  ez  long 
ez  you  'd  take  keer  er  me  an'  fetch  me  home 
all  right." 

Tom's  eyes  belied  his  words,  however,  and 
his  young  master  felt  well  assured  that  Tom 
needed  only  a  good  opportunity  to  make  him 
run  away.  Having  a  comfortable  home,  and 
a  dismal  prospect  in  case  of  failure,  Tom  was 
not  likely  to  take  any  desperate  chances ;  but 


THE  PASSING  OF  GBANDISON  175 

young  Owens  was  satisfied  that  in  a  free  State 
but  little  persuasion  would  be  required  to  lead 
Tom  astray.  With  a  very  logical  and  char- 
acteristic desire  to  gain  his  end  with  the  least 
necessary  expenditure  of  effort,  he  decided  to 
take  Tom  with  him,  if  his  father  did  not 
object. 

Colonel  Owens  had  left  the  house  when 
Dick  went  to  breakfast,  so  Dick  did  not  see 
his  father  till  luncheon. 

"Father,"  he  remarked  casually  to  the 
colonel,  over  the  fried  chicken,  "  I  'm  feeling 
a  trifle  run  down.  I  imagine  my  health 
would  be  improved  somewhat  by  a  little 
travel  and  change  of  scene." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  trip  North  ? " 
suggested  his  father.  The  colonel  added  to 
paternal  affection  a  considerable  respect  for 
his  son  as  the  heir  of  a  large  estate.  He 
himself  had  been  "  raised  "  in  comparative 
poverty,  and  had  laid  the  foundations  of  his 
fortune  by  hard  work ;  and  while  he  despised 
the  ladder  by  which  he  had  climbed,  he  could 
not  entirely  forget  it,  and  unconsciously  mani- 
fested, in  his  intercourse  with  his  son,  some  of 
the  poor  man's  deference  toward  the  wealthy 
and  well-born. 


176  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

"  I  think  I  '11  adopt  your  suggestion,  sir," 
replied  the  son,  "  and  run  up  to  New  York  ; 
and  after  I  've  been  there  awhile  I  may  go 
on  to  Boston  for  a  week  or  so.  I  've  never 
been  there,  you  know." 

"  There  are  some  matters  you  can  talk  over 
with  my  factor  in  New  York,"  rejoined  the 
colonel,  "  and  while  you  are  up  there  among 
the  Yankees,  I  hope  you  '11  keep  your  eyes 
and  ears  open  to  find  out  what  the  rascally 
abolitionists  are  saying  and  doing.  They  're 
becoming  altogether  too  active  for  our  com- 
fort, and  entirely  too  many  ungrateful  niggers 
are  running  away.  I  hope  the  conviction  of 
that  fellow  yesterday  may  discourage  the  rest 
of  the  breed.  I  'd  just  like  to  catch  any  one 
trying  to  run  off  one  of  my  darkeys.  He  'd 
get  short  shrift ;  I  don't  think  any  Court 
would  have  a  chance  to  try  him." 

"  They  are  a  pestiferous  lot,"  assented  Dick, 
"and  dangerous  to  our  institutions.  But 
say,  father,  if  I  go  North  I  shall  want  to  take 
Tom  with  me." 

Now,  the  colonel,  while  a  very  indulgent 
father,  had  pronounced  views  on  the  subject 
of  negroes,  having  studied  them,  as  he  often 
said,  for   a   great   many   years,  and,  as   he 


THE  PASSING  OF  GBANDISON  177 

asserted  oftener  still,  understanding  them 
perfectly.  It  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  say, 
either,  that  he  valued  more  highly  than  if  he 
had  inherited  them  the  slaves  he  had  toiled 
and  schemed  for. 

"  I  don't  think  it  safe  to  take  Tom  up 
North,"  he  declared,  with  promptness  and  de- 
cision. "  He 's  a  good  enough  boy,  but  too 
smart  to  trust  among  those  low-down  abolition- 
ists. I  strongly  suspect  him  of  having  learned 
to  read,  though  I  can't  imagine  how.  I  saw 
him  with  a  newspaper  the  other  day,  and  while 
he  pretended  to  be  looking  at  a  woodcut,  I  'm 
almost  sure  he  was  reading  the  paper.  I 
think  it  by  no  means  safe  to  take  him." 

Dick  did  not  insist,  because  he  knew  it  was 
useless.  The  colonel  would  have  obliged  his 
son  in  any  other  matter,  but  his  negroes  were 
the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  his  wealth 
and  station,  and  therefore  sacred  to  him. 

"  Whom  do  you  think  it  safe  to  take  ?  " 
asked  Dick.  "  I  suppose  I  '11  have  to  have  a 
body-servant." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  Grandison  ?  " 
suggested  the  colonel.  "  He  's  handy  enough, 
and  I  reckon  we  can  trust  him.  He 's  too  fond 
of   good   eating,  to  risk  losing   his   regular 


178  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

meals ;  besides,  he 's  sweet  on  your  mother's 
maid,  Betty,  and  I  've  promised  to  let  'em  get 
married  before  long.  I  '11  have  Grandison  up, 
and  we'll  talk  to  him.  Here,  you  boy  Jack," 
called  the  colonel  to  a  yellow  youth  in  the 
next  room  who  was  catching  flies  and  pulling 
their  wings  off  to  pass  the  time,  "  go  down  to 
the  barn  and  tell  Grandison  to  come  here." 

"  Grandison,"  said  the  colonel,  when  the 
negro  stood  before  him,  hat  in  hand. 

"  Yas,  marster." 

"  Have  n't  I  always  treated  you  right  ?  " 

"  Yas,  marster." 

"  Have  n't  you  always  got  all  you  wanted 
to  eat  ?  " 

"  Yas,  marster." 

"  And  as  much  whiskey  and  tobacco  as  was 
good  for  you,  Grandison  ?  " 

"  Y-a-s,  marster." 

"I  should  just  like  to  know,  Grandison, 
whether  you  don't  think  yourself  a  great  deal 
better  off  than  those  poor  free  negroes  down 
by  the  plank  road,  with  no  kind  master  to 
look  after  them  and  no  mistress  to  give  them 
medicine  when  they  're  sick  and  —  and  " — 

"  Well,  I  sh'd  jes'  reckon  I  is  better  off, 
suh,  dan   dem  low-down  free  niggers,  suh  ! 


THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON  179 

Ef  anybody  ax  'em  who  dey  b'long  ter,  dey 
has  ter  say  nobody,  er  e'se  lie  erbout  it. 
Anybody  ax  me  who  I  b'longs  ter,  I  ain'  got 
no  'casion  ter  be  shame'  ter  tell  'em,  no,  suh, 
'deed  I  ain',  suh  !  " 

The  colonel  was  beaming.  This  was  true 
gratitude,  and  his  feudal  heart  thrilled  at  such 
appreciative  homage.  What  cold-blooded, 
heartless  monsters  they  were  who  would  break 
up  this  blissful  relationship  of  kindly  protec- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  of  wise  subordi- 
nation and  loyal  dependence  on  the  other  ! 
The  colonel  always  became  indignant  at  the 
mere  thought  of  such  wickedness. 

"  Grandison,"  the  colonel  continued,  "  your 
young  master  Dick  is  going  North  for  a 
few  weeks,  and  I  am  thinking  of  letting  him 
take  you  along.  I  shall  send  you  on  this 
trip,  Grandison,  in  order  that  you  may 
take  care  of  your  young  master.  He  will 
need  some  one  to  wait  on  him,  and  no  one 
can  ever  do  it  so  well  as  one  of  the  boys 
brought  up  with  him  on  the  old  plantation. 
I  am  going  to  trust  him  in  your  hands,  and 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  do  your  duty  faithfully,  and 
bring  him  back  home  safe  and  sound  —  to 
old  Kentucky." 


180  THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

Grandison  grinned.  "  Oh  yas,  niarster, 
I  '11  take  keer  er  young  Mars  Dick." 

"  I  want  to  warn  you,  though,  Grandison," 
continued  the  colonel  impressively,  "  against 
these  cussed  abolitionists,  who  try  to  entice 
servants  from  their  comfortable  homes  and 
their  indulgent  masters,  from  the  blue  skies, 
the  green  fields,  and  the  warm  sunlight  of 
their  southern  home,  and  send  them  away  off 
yonder  to  Canada,  a  dreary  country,  where 
the  woods  are  full  of  wildcats  and  wolves  and 
bears,  where  the  snow  lies  up  to  the  eaves 
of  the  houses  for  six  months  of  the  year, 
and  the  cold  is  so  severe  that  it  freezes  your 
breath  and  curdles  your  blood;  and  where, 
when  runaway  niggers  get  sick  and  can't 
work,  they  are  turned  out  to  starve  and  die, 
unloved  and  uncared  for.  I  reckon,  Grandi- 
son, that  you  have  too  much  sense  to  permit 
yourself  to  be  led  astray  by  any  such  foolish 
and  wicked  people." 

"  'Deed,  suh,  I  would  n'  low  none  er  dem 
cussed,  low-down  abolitioners  ter  come  nigh 
me,  suh.  I  'd  —  I  'd  —  would  I  be  'lowed  ter 
hit  'em,  suh  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Grandison,"  replied  the  colonel, 
chuckling,  "  hit  'em  as  hard  as  you  can.     I 


THE  PASSING  OF  GBANDISON  181 

reckon  they  'd  rather  like  it.  Begad,  I  be- 
lieve they  would  !  It  would  serve  'eni  right 
to  be  hit  by  a  nigger  !  " 

"  Er  ef  I  did  n't  hit  'em,  suh,"  continued 
Grandison  reflectively,  "  I  'd  tell  Mars  Dick, 
en  he  'd  fix  'em.  He  'd  smash  de  face  off'n 
'em,  suh,  I  jes'  knows  he  would." 

"  Oh  yes,  Grandison,  your  young  master 
will  protect  you.  You  need  fear  no  harm 
while  he  is  near." 

"  Dey  won't  try  ter  steal  me,  will  dey,  mars- 
ter  ?  "  asked  the  negro,  with  sudden  alarm. 

"  I  don't  know,  Grandison,"  replied  the 
colonel,  lighting  a  fresh  cigar.  "  They  're  a 
desperate  set  of  lunatics,  and  there  's  no  tell- 
ing what  they  may  resort  to.  But  if  you 
stick  close  to  your  young  master,  and  remem- 
ber always  that  he  is  your  best  friend,  and 
understands  your  real  needs,  and  has  your 
true  interests  at  heart,  and  if  you  will  be 
careful  to  avoid  strangers  who  try  to  talk  to 
you,  you  '11  stand  a  fair  chance  of  getting 
back  to  your  home  and  your  friends.  And 
if  you  please  your  master  Dick,  he  '11  buy  you 
a  present,  and  a  string  of  beads  for  Betty 
to  wear  when  you  and  she  get  married  in  the 
fall." 


182  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

"  Thanky,  marster,  thanky,  suh,"  replied 
Grandison,  oozing  gratitude  at  every  pore ; 
61  you  is  a  good  marster,  to  be  sho',  suh ;  yas, 
'deed  you  is.  You  kin  jes'  bet  me  and  Mars 
Dick  gwine  git  'long  jes'  lack  I  wuz  own  boy 
ter  Mars  Dick.  En  it  won't  be  my  fault  ef 
he  don'  want  me  fer  his  boy  all  de  time,  w'en 
we  come  back  home  ag'in." 

"  All  right,  Grandison,  you  may  go  now. 
You  need  n't  work  any  more  to-day,  and 
here 's  a  piece  of  tobacco  for  you  off  my  own 
plug." 

"  Thanky,  marster,  thanky,  marster  !  You 
is  de  bes'  marster  any  nigger  ever  had  in  dis 
worl'."  And  Grandison  bowed  and  scraped 
and  disappeared  round  the  corner,  his  jaws 
closing  around  a  large  section  of  the  colonel's 
best  tobacco. 

"You  may  take  Grandison,"  said  the  colo- 
nel to  his  son.  "  I  allow  he  's  abolitionist- 
proof." 

Ill 

Richard  Owens,  Esq.,  and  servant,  from 
Kentucky,  registered  at  the  fashionable  New 
York  hostelry  for  Southerners  in  those  days, 
a  hotel  where   an    atmosphere    congenial   to 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  183 

Southern  institutions  was  sedulously  main- 
tained. But  there  were  negro  waiters  in  the 
dining-room,  and  mulatto  bell-boys,  and  Dick 
had  no  doubt  that  Grandison,  with  the  native 
gregariousness  and  garrulousness  of  his  race, 
would  foregather  and  palaver  with  them 
sooner  or  later,  and  Dick  hoped  that  they 
would  speedily  inoculate  him  with  the  virus  of 
freedom.  For  it  was  not  Dick's  intention  to 
sav  anything  to  his  servant  about  his  plan  to 
free  him,  for  obvious  reasons.  To  mention 
one  of  them,  if  Grandison  should  go  away, 
and  by  legal  process  be  recaptured,  his  young 
master's  part  in  the  matter  would  doubtless 
become  known,  which  would  be  embarrass- 
ing to  Dick,  to  say  the  least.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  should  merely  give  Grandison 
sufficient  latitude,  he  had  no  doubt  he  would 
eventually  lose  him.  For  while  not  exactly 
skeptical  about  Grandison's  perfervid  loyalty, 
Dick  had  been  a  somewhat  keen  observer  of 
human  nature,  in  his  own  indolent  way,  and 
based  his  expectations  upon  the  force  of  the 
example  and  argument  that  his  servant  could 
scarcely  fail  to  encounter.  Grandison  should 
have  a  fair  chance  to  become  free  by  his  own 
initiative ;  if  it  should   become  necessary  to 


184  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

adopt  other  measures  to  get  rid  of  him,  it 
would  be  time  enough  to  act  when  the  neces- 
sity arose ;  and  Dick  Owens  was  not  the  youth 
to  take  needless  trouble. 

The  young  master  renewed  some  acquaint- 
ances and  made  others,  and  spent  a  week  or 
two  very  pleasantly  in  the  best  society  of 
the  metropolis,  easily  accessible  to  a  wealthy, 
well-bred  young  Southerner,  with  proper  in- 
troductions. Young  women  smiled  on  him, 
and  young  men  of  convivial  habits  pressed 
their  hospitalities ;  but  the  memory  of  Char- 
ity's sweet,  strong  face  and  clear  blue  eyes 
made  him  proof  against  the  blandishments 
of  the  one  sex  and  the  persuasions  of  the 
other.  Meanwhile  he  kept  Grandison  sup- 
plied with  pocket-money,  and  left  him  mainly 
to  his  own  devices.  Every  night  when  Dick 
came  in  he  hoped  he  might  have  to  wait 
upon  himself,  and  every  morning  he  looked 
forward  with  pleasure  to  the  prospect  of 
making  his  toilet  unaided.  His  hopes,  how- 
ever, were  doomed  to  disappointment,  for 
every  night  when  he  came  in  Grandison  was 
on  hand  with  a  bootjack,  and  a  nightcap  mixed 
for  his  young  master  as  the  colonel  had  taught 
him  to  mix  it,  and  every  morning  Grandison 


THE  PASSING  OF  GEANDISON  185 

appeared  with  his  master's  boots  blacked  and 
his  clothes  brushed,  and  laid  his  linen  out,  for 
the  day. 

"  Grandison,"  said  Dick  one  morning,  after 
finishing  his  toilet,  "  this  is  the  chance  of 
your  life  to  go  around  among  your  own  people 
and  see  how  they  live.  Have  you  met  any  of 
them?" 

"  Yas,  suh,  I 's  seen  some  of  'em.  But  I 
don'  keer  nuffin  fer  'em,  suh.  Dey  're  dif- 
fe'nt  f'm  de  niggers  down  ou'  way.  Dey 
'lows  dey  're  free,  but  dey  ain'  got  sense  'nufT 
ter  know  dey  ain'  half  as  well  off  as  dey  would 
be  down  Souf,  whar  dey  'd  be  'preciated." 

When  two  weeks  had  passed  without  any 
apparent  effect  of  evil  example  upon  Grandi- 
son, Dick  resolved  to  go  on  to  Boston,  where 
he  thought  the  atmosphere  might  prove  more 
favorable  to  his  ends.  After  he  had  been  at 
the  Revere  House  for  a  day  or  two  without 
losing  Grandison,  he  decided  upon  slightly 
different  tactics. 

Having  ascertained  from  a  city  directory 
the  addresses  of  several  well-known  abolition- 
ists, he  wrote  them  each  a  letter  something 
like  this :  — 


186         the  passing  of  grandison 

Dear  Friend  and  Brother  :  — 
A  wicked  slaveholder  from  Kentucky, 
stopping  at  the  Revere  House,  lias  dared  to 
insult  the  liberty-loving  people  of  Boston  by 
bringing  his  slave  into  their  midst.  Shall 
this  be  tolerated?  Or  shall  steps  be  taken 
in  the  name  of  liberty  to  rescue  a  fellow-man 
from  bondage?  For  obvious  reasons  I  can 
only  sign  myself, 

A  Friend  of  Humanity. 

That  his  letter  might  have  an  opportunity 
to  prove  effective,  Dick  made  it  a  point  to 
send  Grandison  away  from  the  hotel  on  vari- 
ous errands.  On  one  of  these  occasions  Dick 
watched  him  for  quite  a  distance  down  the 
street.  Grandison  had  scarcely  left  the  hotel 
when  a  long-haired,  sharp-featured  man  came 
out  behind  him,  followed  him,  soon  overtook 
him,  and  kept  along  beside  him  until  they 
turned  the  next  corner.  Dick's  hopes  were 
roused  by  this  spectacle,  but  sank  correspond- 
ingly when  Grandison  returned  to  the  hotel. 
As  Grandison  said  nothing  about  the  en- 
counter, Dick  hoped  there  might  be  some 
self-consciousness  behind  this  unexpected  reti- 
cence, the  results  of  which  might  develop 
later  on. 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  187 

But  Grandison  was  on  hand  a^ain  when 
his  master  came  back  to  the  hotel  at  night, 
and  was  in  attendance  again  in  the  morning, 
with  hot  water,  to  assist  at  his  master's  toilet. 
Dick  sent  him  on  further  errands  from  day  to 
day,  and  upon  one  occasion  came  squarely 
up  to  him  —  inadvertently  of  course  —  while 
Grandison  was  engaged  in  conversation  with 
a  young  white  man  in  clerical  garb.  When 
Grandison  saw  Dick  approaching,  he  edged 
away  from  the  preacher  and  hastened  toward 
his  master,  with  a  very  evident  expression  of 
relief  upon  his  countenance. 

"  Mars  Dick,"  he  said,  "  dese  yer  abolition- 
ers  is  jes'  pesterin'  de  life  out  er  me  try  in' 
ter  git  me  ter  run  away.  I  don'  pay  no  'ten- 
tion  ter  'em,  but  dey  riles  me  so  sometimes 
dat  I  'm  feared  I  '11  hit  some  of  'em  some  er 
dese  days,  an'  dat  mought  git  me  inter  trouble. 
I  ain'  said  nuffin'  ter  you  'bout  it,  Mars  Dick, 
f er  I  did  n'  wanter  'sturb  yo'  ruin' ;  but  I  don' 
like  it,  suh ;  no,  suh,  I  don'  !  Is  we  gwine 
back  home  'f  o'  long,  Mars  Dick  ?  " 

"  We  '11  be  going  back  soon  enough,"  re- 
plied Dick  somewhat  shortly,  while  he  in- 
wardly cursed  the  stupidity  of  a  slave  who 
could  be  free  and  would  not,  and  registered 


188  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

a  secret  vow  that  if  he  were  unable  to  s:et  rid 
of  Grandison  without  assassinating  him,  and 
were  therefore  compelled  to  take  him  back  to 
Kentucky,  he  would  see  that  Grandison  got  a 
taste  of  an  article  of  slavery  that  would  make 
him  regret  his  wasted  opportunities.  Mean- 
while he  determined  to  tempt  his  servant  yet 
more  strongly. 

"Grandison,"  he  said  next  morning,  "I'm 
going  away  for  a  day  or  two,  but  I  shall  leave 
you  here.  I  shall  lock  up  a  hundred  dollars 
in  this  drawer  and  give  you  the  key.  If  you 
need  any  of  it,  use  it  and  enjoy  yourself,  — 
spend  it  all  if  you  like,  —  for  this  is  probably 
the  last  chance  you  '11  have  for  some  time  to 
be  in  a  free  State,  and  you  'd  better  enjoy 
your  liberty  while  you  may." 

When  he  came  back  a  couple  of  days  later 
and  found  the  faithful  Grandison  at  his  post, 
and  the  hundred  dollars  intact,  Dick  felt  seri- 
ously annoyed.  His  vexation  was  increased 
by  the  fact  that  he  could  not  express  his 
feelings  adequately.  He  did  not  even  scold 
Grandison  ;  how  could  he,  indeed,  find  fault 
with  one  who  so  sensibly  recognized  his  true 
place  in  the  economy  of  civilization,  and  kept 
it  with  such  touching  fidelity  ? 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  189 

"  I  can't  say  a  tiling  to  him,"  groaned 
Dick.  "  He  deserves  a  leather  medal,  made 
out  of  his  own  hide  tanned.  I  reckon  I'll 
write  to  father  and  let  him  know  what  a 
model  servant  he  has  given  me." 

He  wrote  his  father  a  letter  which  made  the 
colonel  swell  with  pride  and  pleasure.  "  I 
really  think,"  the  colonel  observed  to  one  of 
his  friends,  "  that  Dick  ought  to  have  the 
nigger  interviewed  by  the  Boston  papers,  so 
that  they  may  see  how  contented  and  happy 
our  darkeys  really  are." 

Dick  also  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Charity 
Lomax,  in  which  he  said,  among  many  other 
things,  that  if  she  knew  how  hard  he  was 
working,  and  under  what  difficulties,  to  ac- 
complish something  serious  for  her  sake,  she 
would  no  longer  keep  him  in  suspense,  but 
overwhelm  him  with  love  and  admiration. 

Having  thus  exhausted  without  result  the 
more  obvious  methods  of  getting  rid  of  Gran- 
dison,  and  diplomacy  having  also  proved  a 
failure,  Dick  was  forced  to  consider  more 
radical  measures.  Of  course  he  might  run 
away  himself,  and  abandon  Grandison,  but 
this  would  be  merely  to  leave  him  in  the 
United  States,  where  he  was  still  a  slave,  and 


190  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

where,  with  his  notions  of  loyalty,  he  would 
speedily  be  reclaimed.  It  was  necessary,  in 
order  to  accomplish  the  purpose  of  his  trip  to 
the  North,  to  leave  Grandison  permanently  in 
Canada,  where  he  would  be  legally  free. 

"  I  might  extend  my  trip  to  Canada,"  he 
reflected,  "  but  that  would  be  too  palpable. 
I  have  it !  I  '11  visit  Niagara  Falls  on  the 
way  home,  and  lose  him  on  the  Canada  side. 
When  he  once  realizes  that  he  is  actually 
free,  I  '11  warrant  that  he  '11  stay." 

So  the  next  day  saw  them  westward  bound, 
and  in  due  course  of  time,  by  the  somewhat 
slow  conveyances  of  the  period,  they  found 
themselves  at  Niagara.  Dick  walked  and 
drove  about  the  Falls  for  several  days,  taking 
Grandison  along  with  him  on  most  occasions. 
One  morning  they  stood  on  the  Canadian 
side,  watching  the  wild  whirl  of  the  waters 
below  them. 

"  Grandison,"  said  Dick,  raising  his  voice 
above  the  roar  of  the  cataract,  "  do  you  know 
where  you  are  now  ?  " 

"  I 's  wid  you,  Mars  Dick ;  dat  's  all  I 
keers." 

"  You  are  now  in  Canada,  Grandison,  where 
your  people  go  when   they  run   away  from 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  191 

their  masters.  If  you  wished,  Grandison,  you 
might  walk  away  from  me  this  very  minute, 
and  I  could  not  lay  my  hand  upon  you  to 
take  you  back." 

Grandison  looked  around  uneasily. 

"  Let 's  go  back  ober  de  ribber,  Mars  Dick. 
I 's  feared  I  '11  lose  you  ovuh  heah,  an'  den  I 
won'  hab  no  marster,  an'  won't  nebber  be 
able  to  git  back  home  no  mo'." 

Discouraged,  but  not  yet  hopeless,  Dick 
said,  a  few  minutes  later,  — 

"  Grandison,  I  'm  going  up  the  road  a  bit, 
to  the  inn  over  yonder.  You  stay  here  until 
I  return.     I  '11  not  be  gone  a  great  while." 

Grandison's  eyes  opened  wide  and  he 
looked  somewhat  fearful. 

"  Is  dey  any  er  dem  dadblasted  abolitioners 
roun'  heah,  Mars  Dick  ?  " 

"  I  don't  imagine  that  there  are,"  replied 
his  master,  hoping  there  might  be.  "  But 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  your  running  away,  Grandi- 
son. I  only  wish  I  were,"  he  added  to  him- 
self. 

Dick  walked  leisurely  down  the  road  to 
where  the  whitewashed  inn,  built  of  stone, 
with  true  British  solidity,  loomed  up  through 
the  trees  by  the  roadside.     Arrived  there  he 


192  THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

ordered  a  glass  of  ale  and  a  sandwich,  and 
took  a  seat  at  a  table  by  a  window,  from 
which  he  could  see  Grandison  in  the  distance. 
For  a  while  he  hoped  that  the  seed  he  had 
sown  might  have  fallen  on  fertile  ground, 
and  that  Grandison,  relieved  from  the  re- 
straining power  of  a  master's  eye,  and  find- 
ing himself  in  a  free  country,  might  get  up 
and  walk  away  ;  but  the  hope  was  vain,  for 
Grandison  remained  faithfully  at  his  post, 
awaiting  his  master's  return.  He  had  seated 
himself  on  a  broad  flat  stone,  and,  turning  his 
eyes  away  from  the  grand  and  awe-inspiring 
spectacle  that  lay  close  at  hand,  was  looking 
anxiously  toward  the  inn  where  his  master  sat 
cursing  his  ill-timed  fidelity. 

By  and  by  a  girl  came  into  the  room  to 
serve  his  order,  and  Dick  very  naturally 
glanced  at  her ;  and  as  she  was  young  and 
pretty  and  remained  in  attendance,  it  was 
some  minutes  before  he  looked  for  Grandison. 
When  he  did  so  his  faithful  servant  had  dis- 
appeared. 

To  pay  his  reckoning  and  go  away  without 
the  change  was  a  matter  quickly  accom- 
plished. Retracing  his  footsteps  toward  the 
Falls,  he  saw,  to  his  great  disgust,  as  he  ap- 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  193 

proached  the  spot  where  he  had  left  Grandi- 
sou,  the  familiar  form  of  his  servant  stretched 
out  on  the  ground,  his  face  to  the  sun,  his 
mouth  open,  sleeping  the  time  away,  oblivious 
alike  to  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery,  the 
thunderous  roar  of  the  cataract,  or  the  insid- 
ious voice  of  sentiment. 

"  Grandison,"  soliloquized  his  master,  as  he 
stood  gazing  down  at  his  ebony  encumbrance, 
"  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  an  American  citizen  ; 
I  ought  not  to  have  the  advantages  I  possess 
over  you ;  and  I  certainly  am  not  worthy  of 
Charity  Lomax,  if  I  am  not  smart  enough  to 
get  rid  of  you.  I  have  an  idea  !  You  shall 
yet  be  free,  and  I  will  be  the  instrument  of 
your  deliverance.  Sleep  on,  faithful  and  af- 
fectionate servitor,  and  dream  of  the  blue 
grass  and  the  bright  skies  of  old  Kentucky, 
for  it  is  only  in  your  dreams  that  you  will 
ever  see  them  again  !  " 

Dick  retraced  his  footsteps  towards  the 
inn.  The  young  woman  chanced  to  look  out 
of  the  window  and  saw  the  handsome  young 
gentleman  she  had  waited  on  a  few  minutes 
before,  standing  in  the  road  a  short  distance 
away,  apparently  engaged  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  a  colored  man  employed  as  hostler 


194  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

for  the  inn.  She  thought  she  saw  something 
pass  from  the  white  man  to  the  other,  but  at 
that  moment  her  duties  called  her  away  from 
the  window,  and  when  she  looked  out  again 
the  young  gentleman  had  disappeared,  and 
the  hostler,  with  two  other  young  men  of  the 
neighborhood,  one  white  and  one  colored, 
were  walking  rapidly  towards  the  Falls. 


IV 

Dick  made  the  journey  homeward  alone, 
and  as  rapidly  as  the  conveyances  of  the  day 
would  permit.  As  he  drew  near  home  his 
conduct  in  going  back  without  Grandison 
took  on  a  more  serious  aspect  than  it  had 
borne  at  any  previous  time,  and  although  he 
had  prepared  the  colonel  by  a  letter  sent 
several  days  ahead,  there  was  still  the  pro- 
spect of  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  with  him  ; 
not,  indeed,  that  his  father  would  upbraid 
him,  but  he  was  likely  to  make  searching  in- 
quiries. And  notwithstanding  the  vein  of 
quiet  recklessness  that  had  carried  Dick 
through  his  preposterous  scheme,  he  was  a 
very  poor  liar,  having  rarely  had  occasion  or 
inclination  to  tell  anything   but   the   truth. 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  195 

Any  reluctance  to  meet  his  father  was  more 
than  offset,  however,  by  a  stronger  force  draw- 
ing him  homeward,  for  Charity  Lomax  must 
long:  since  have  returned  from  her  visit  to  her 
aunt  in  Tennessee. 

Dick  got  off  easier  than  he  had  expected. 
He  told  a  straight  story,  and  a  truthful  one, 
so  far  as  it  went. 

The  colonel  raged  at  first,  but  rage  soon 
subsided  into  anger,  and  anger  moderated 
into  annoyance,  and  annoyance  into  a  sort 
of  garrulous  sense  of  injury.  The  colonel 
thought  he  had  been  hardly  used ;  he  had 
trusted  this  negro,  and  he  had  broken  faith. 
Yet,  after  all,  he  did  not  blame  Grandison 
so  much  as  he  did  the  abolitionists,  who  were 
undoubtedly  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

As  for  Charity  Lomax,  Dick  told  her,  pri- 
vately of  course,  that  he  had  run  his  father's 
man,  Grandison,  off  to  Canada,  and  left  him 
there. 

"  Oh,  Dick,"  she  had  said  with  shuddering 
alarm,  "  what  have  you  done  ?  If  they  knew 
it  they  'd  send  you  to  the  penitentiary,  like 
they  did  that  Yankee." 

"  But  they  don't  know  it,"  he  had  replied 
seriously;  adding,  with  an  injured  tone,  "you 


196  THE  PASSING   OF  GRANDISON 

don't  seem  to  appreciate  my  heroism  like 
you  did  that  of  the  Yankee  ;  perhaps  it 's 
because  I  was  n't  caught  and  sent  to  the 
penitentiary.  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to 
do  it." 

"  Why,  Dick  Owens ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  know  I  never  dreamed  of  any  such 
outrageous  proceeding. 

"  But  I  presume  I  '11  have  to  marry  you," 
she  concluded,  after  some  insistence  on  Dick's 
part,  "  if  only  to  take  care  of  you.  You 
are  too  reckless  for  anything ;  and  a  man 
who  goes  chasing  all  over  the  North,  being 
entertained  by  New  York  and  Boston  society 
and  having  negroes  to  throw  away,  needs 
some  one  to  look  after  him." 

"It's  a  most  remarkable  thing,"  replied 
Dick  fervently,  "  that  your  views  correspond 
exactly  with  my  profoundest  convictions.  It 
proves  beyond  question  that  we  were  made 
for  one  another." 

They  were  married  three  weeks  later.  As 
each  of  them  had  just  returned  from  a  jour- 
ney, they  spent  their  honeymoon  at  home. 

A  week  after  the  wedding  they  were  seated, 
one  afternoon,  on  the  piazza  of  the  colonel's 


THE  PASSING   OF  GEANDISON  197 

house,  where  Dick  had  taken  his  bride,  when 
a  negro  from  the  yard  ran  down  the  lane  and 
threw  open  the  big  gate  for  the  colonel's 
buggy  to  enter.  The  colonel  was  not  alone. 
Beside  him,  ragged  and  travel-stained,  bowed 
with  weariness,  and  upon  his  face  a  haggard 
look  that  told  of  hardship  and  privation,  sat 
the  lost  Grandison. 

The  colonel  alighted  at  the  steps. 

"Take  the  lines,  Tom,"  he  said  to  the 
man  who  had  opened  the  gate,  "and  drive 
round  to  the  barn.  Help  Grandison  down,  — 
poor  devil,  he  's  so  stiff  he  can  hardly  move  ! 
—  and  get  a  tub  of  water  and  wash  him  and 
rub  him  down,  and  feed  him,  and  give  him 
a  big  drink  of  whiskey,  and  then  let  him 
come  round  and  see  his  young  master  and  his 
new  mistress." 

The  colonel's  face  wore  an  expression  com- 
pounded of  joy  and  indignation,  —  joy  at 
the  restoration  of  a  valuable  piece  of  pro- 
perty ;  indignation  for  reasons  he  proceeded 
to  state. 

"  It 's  astounding,  the  depths  of  depravity 
the  human  heart  is  capable  of !  I  was  com- 
ing along  the  road  three  miles  away,  when 
I  heard  some  one  call  me  from  the  roadside. 


198  THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

I  pulled  up  the  mare,  and  who  should  come 
out  of  the  woods  but  Grandison.  The  poor 
nigger  could  hardly  crawl  along,  with  the 
help  of  a  broken  limb.  I  was  never  more 
astonished  in  my  life.  You  could  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  He 
seemed  pretty  far  gone,  —  he  could  hardly 
talk  above  a  whisper,  — and  I  had  to  give  him 
a  mouthful  of  whiskey  to  brace  him  up  so  he 
could  tell  his  story.  It 's  just  as  I  thought 
from  the  beginning,  Dick  ;  Grandison  had  no 
notion  of  running  away  ;  he  knew  when  he  was 
well  off,  and  where  his  friends  were.  All  the 
persuasions  of  abolition  liars  and  runaway 
niggers  did  not  move  him.  But  the  desper- 
ation of  those  fanatics  knew  no  bounds ; 
their  guilty  consciences  gave  them  no  rest. 
They  got  the  notion  somehow  that  Grandison 
belonged  to  a  mower-catcher,  and  had  been 
brought  North  as  a  spy  to  help  capture  un- 
grateful runaway  servants.  They  actually 
kidnaped  him  —  just  think  of  it!  —  and 
gagged  him  and  bound  him  and  threw  him 
rudely  into  a  wagon,  and  carried  him  into 
the  gloomy  depths  of  a  Canadian  forest,  and 
locked  him  in  a  lonely  hut,  and  fed  him  on 
bread  and  water  for  three  weeks.     One  of  the 


THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON  199 

scoundrels  wanted  to  kill  him,  and  persuaded 
the  others  that  it  ought  to  be  done  ;  but  they 
got  to  quarreling  about  how  they  should  do 
it,  and  before  they  had  their  minds  made  up 
Grandison  escaped,  and,  keeping  his  back 
steadily  to  the  North  Star,  made  his  way, 
after  suffering  incredible  hardships,  back  to 
the  old  plantation,  back  to  his  master,  his 
friends,  and  his  home.  Why,  it 's  as  good  as 
one  of  Scott's  novels !  Mr.  Simms  or  some 
other  one  of  our  Southern  authors  ought  to 
write  it  up." 

"  Don't  you  think,  sir,"  suggested  Dick, 
who  had  calmly  smoked  his  cigar  throughout 
the  colonel's  animated  recital,  "  that  that 
kidnaping  yarn  sounds  a  little  improbable  ? 
Is  n't  there  some  more  likely  explanation  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Dick ;  it 's  the  gospel  truth  ! 
Those  infernal  abolitionists  are  capable  of 
anything  —  everything  !  Just  think  of  their 
locking  the  poor,  faithful  nigger  up,  beating 
him,  kicking  him,  depriving  him  of  his  liberty, 
keeping  him  on  bread  and  water  for  three 
long,  lonesome  weeks,  and  he  all  the  time 
pining  for  the  old  plantation  !  " 

There  were  almost  tears  in  the  colonel's 
eyes  at  the  picture  of  Grandison's  sufferings 


200  THE  PASSING  OF  GRANDISON 

that  he  conjured  up.  Dick  still  professed 
to  be  slightly  skeptical,  and  met  Charity's 
severely  questioning  eye  with  bland  uncon- 
sciousness. 

The  colonel  killed  the  fatted  calf  for 
Grandison,  and  for  two  or  three  weeks  the 
returned  wanderer's  life  was  a  slave's  dream 
of  pleasure.  His  fame  spread  throughout 
the  county,  and  the  colonel  gave  him  a  per- 
manent place  among  the  house  servants, 
where  he  could  always  have  him  conveniently 
at  hand  to  relate  his  adventures  to  admiring 
visitors. 

About  three  weeks  after  Grandison's  return 
the  colonel's  faith  in  sable  humanity  was 
rudely  shaken,  and  its  foundations  almost 
broken  up.  He  came  near  losing  his  belief 
in  the  fidelity  of  the  negro  to  his  master,  — 
the  servile  virtue  most  highly  prized  and 
most  sedulously  cultivated  by  the  colonel  and 
his  kind.  One  Monday  morning  Grandison 
was  missing.  And  not  only  Grandison,  but 
his  wife,  Betty  the  maid  ;  his  mother,  aunt 
Eunice ;  his  father,  uncle  Ike ;  his  brothers, 
Tom  and  John,  and  his  little  sister  Elsie, 
were   likewise   absent  from    the   plantation ; 


THE  PASSING  OF  GBANDISON  201 

and  a  hurried  search  and  inquiry  in  the 
neighborhood  resulted  in  no  information  as 
to  their  whereabouts.  So  much  valuable 
property  could  not  be  lost  without  an  effort 
to  recover  it,  and  the  wholesale  nature  of  the 
transaction  carried  consternation  to  the  hearts 
of  those  whose  ledgers  were  chiefly  bound  in 
black.  Extremely  energetic  measures  were 
taken  by  the  colonel  and  his  friends.  The 
fugitives  were  traced,  and  followed  from  point 
to  point,  on  their  northward  run  through 
Ohio.  Several  times  the  hunters  were  close 
upon  their  heels,  but  the  magnitude  of  the 
escaping  party  begot  unusual  vigilance  on 
the  part  of  those  who  sympathized  with  the 
fugitives,  and  strangely  enough,  the  under- 
ground railroad  seemed  to  have  had  its  tracks 
cleared  and  signals  set  for  this  particular 
train.  Once,  twice,  the  colonel  thought  he 
had  them,  but  they  slipped  through  his 
fingers. 

One  last  glimpse  he  caught  of  his  vanishing 
property,  as  he  stood,  accompanied  by  a  United 
States  marshal,  on  a  wharf  at  a  port  on  the 
south  shore  of  Lake  Erie.  On  the  stern  of  a 
small  steamboat  which  was  receding  rapidly 
from  the  wharf,  with  her  nose  pointing  toward 


202  THE  PASSING   OF  GEANDISON 

Canada,  there  stood  a  group  of  familiar  dark 
faces,  and  the  look  they  cast  backward  was 
not  one  of  longing  for  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt. 
The  colonel  saw  Grandison  point  him  out  to 
one  of  the  crew  of  the  vessel,  who  waved 
his  hand  derisively  toward  the  colonel.  The 
latter  shook  his  fist  impotently  —  and  the 
incident  was  closed. 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S  WIVES 


Uncle  Wellington  Braboy  was  so 
deeply  absorbed  in  thought  as  he  walked 
slowly  homeward  from  the  weekly  meeting 
of  the  Union  League,  that  he  let  his  pipe  go 
out,  a  fact  of  which  he  remained  oblivious 
until  he  had  reached  the  little  frame  house 
in  the  suburbs  of  Patesville,  where  he  lived 
with  aunt  Milly,  his  wife.  On  this  particular 
occasion  the  club  had  been  addressed  by  a 
visiting  brother  from  the  North,  Professor 
Patterson,  a  tall,  well-formed  mulatto,  who 
wore  a  perfectly  fitting  suit  of  broadcloth,  a 
shiny  silk  hat,  and  linen  of  dazzling  whiteness, 
—  in  short,  a  gentleman  of  such  distinguished 
appearance  that  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
offices  and  stores  on  Front  Street  were  filled 
with  curious  observers  as  he  passed  through 
that  thoroughfare  in  the  early  part  of  the 
day.  This  polished  stranger  was  a  travel- 
ing organizer  of  Masonic  lodges,  but  he  also 


204  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

claimed  to  be  a  high  officer  in  the  Union 
League,  and  had  been  invited  to  lecture  be- 
fore the  local  chapter  of  that  organization  at 
Patesville. 

The  lecture  had  been  largely  attended,  and 
uncle  Wellington  Braboy  had  occupied  a  seat 
just  in  front  of  the  platform.  The  subject  of 
the  lecture  was  "  The  Mental,  Moral,  Physical, 
Political,  Social,  and  Financial  Improvement 
of  the  Negro  Race  in  America,"  a  theme  much 
dwelt  upon,  with  slight  variations,  by  colored 
orators.  For  to  this  struggling  people,  then 
as  now,  the  problem  of  their  uncertain  present 
and  their  doubtful  future  was  the  chief  con- 
cern of  life.  The  period  was  the  hopeful 
one.  The  Federal  Government  retained 
some  vestige  of  authority  in  the  South,  and 
the  newly  emancipated  race  cherished  the 
delusion  that  under  the  Constitution,  that 
enduring  rock  on  which  our  liberties  are 
founded,  and  under  the  equal  laws  it  pur- 
ported to  guarantee,  they  would  enter  upon 
the  era  of  freedom  and  opportunity  which 
their  Northern  friends  had  inaugurated  with 
such  solemn  sanctions.  The  speaker  pictured 
in  eloquent  language  the  state  of  ideal  equal- 
ity and  happiness  enjoyed  by  colored  people 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  205 

at  the  North  :  how  they  sent  their  children 
to  school  with  the  white  children  ;  how  they 
sat  by  white  people  in  the  churches  and  thea- 
tres, ate  with  them  in  the  public  restaurants, 
and  buried  their  dead  in  the  same  cemeteries. 
The  professor  waxed  eloquent  with  the  de- 
velopment of  his  theme,  and,  as  a  finishing 
touch  to  an  alluring  picture,  assured  the  ex- 
cited audience  that  the  intermarriage  of  the 
races  was  common,  and  that  he  himself  had 
espoused  a  white  woman. 

Uncle  Wellington  Braboy  was  a  deeply  in- 
terested listener.  He  had  heard  something 
of  these  facts  before,  but  his  information  had 
always  come  in  such  vague  and  questionable 
shape  that  he  had  paid  little  attention  to  it. 
He  knew  that  the  Yankees  had  freed  the 
slaves,  and  that  runaway  negroes  had  always 
gone  to  the  North  to  seek  liberty ;  any  such 
equality,  however,  as  the  visiting  brother  had 
depicted,  was  more  than  uncle  Wellington 
had  ever  conceived  as  actually  existing  any- 
where in  the  world.  At  first  he  felt  inclined 
to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  speaker's  statements  ; 
but  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  the  eloquence  of 
his  language,  and  the  flowing  length  of  his 
whiskers,  were  so   far  superior   to  anything 


206  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

uncle  Wellington  had  ever  met  among  the 
colored  people  of  his  native  State,  that  he  felt 
irresistibly  impelled  to  the  conviction  that  no- 
thing less  than  the  advantages  claimed  for  the 
North  by  the  visiting  brother  could  have  pro- 
duced such  an  exquisite  flower  of  civilization. 
Any  lingering  doubts  uncle  Wellington  may 
have  felt  were  entirely  dispelled  by  the  courtly 
bow  and  cordial  grasp  of  the  hand  with  which 
the  visiting;  brother  acknowledged  the  con- 
gratulations  showered  upon  him  by  the  audi- 
ence at  the  close  of  his  address. 

The  more  uncle  Wellington's  mind  dwelt 
upon  the  professor's  speech,  the  more  attrac- 
tive seemed  the  picture  of  Northern  life  pre- 
sented. Uncle  Wellington  possessed  in  large 
measure  the  imaginative  faculty  so  freely  be- 
stowed by  nature  upon  the  race  from  which 
the  darker  half  of  his  blood  was  drawn.  He 
had  indulged  in  occasional  day-dreams  of  an 
ideal  state  of  social  equality,  but  his  wildest 
flights  of  fancy  had  never  located  it  nearer 
than  heaven,  and  he  had  felt  some  misgivings 
about  its  practical  working  even  there.  Its 
desirability  he  had  never  doubted,  and  the 
speech  of  the  evening  before  had  given  a 
local  habitation  and  a  name  to  the  forms  his 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  207 

imagination  had  bodied  forth.  Giving  full 
rein  to  his  fancy,  he  saw  in  the  North  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  —  a  land  peo- 
pled by  noble  men  and  beautiful  women, 
among  whom  colored  men  and  women  moved 
with  the  ease  and  grace  of  acknowledged 
right.  Then  he  placed  himself  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture.  What  a  fine  figure  he 
would  have  made  in  the  world  if  he  had  been 
born  at  the  free  North  !  He  imagined  him- 
self dressed  like  the  professor,  and  passing 
the  contribution-box  in  a  white  church  ;  and 
most  pleasant  of  his  dreams,  and  the  hardest 
to  realize  as  possible,  was  that  of  the  gracious 
white  lady  he  might  have  called  wife.  Uncle 
Wellington  was  a  mulatto,  and  his  features 
were  those  of  his  white  father,  though  tinged 
with  the  hue  of  his  mother's  race  ;  and  as 
he  lifted  the  kerosene  lamp  at  evening,  and 
took  a  long  look  at  his  image  in  the  little 
mirror  over  the  mantelpiece,  he  said  to  him- 
self that  he  was  a  very  good-looking  man, 
and  could  have  adorned  a  much  higher  sphere 
in  life  than  that  in  which  the  accident  of 
birth  had  placed  him.  He  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  that  he  lived  in  a  two-story  brick 
house,  with  a  spacious  flower  garden  in  front, 


208  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

the  whole  inclosed  by  a  high  iron  fence  ;  that 
he  kept  a  carriage  and  servants,  and  never  did 
a  stroke  of  work.  This  was  the  highest  style 
of  living  in  Patesville,  and  he  could  conceive 
of  nothing  finer. 

Uncle  Wellington  slept  later  than  usual  the 
next  morning,  and  the  sunlight  was  pouring 
in  at  the  open  window  of  the  bedroom,  when 
his  dreams  were  interrupted  by  the  voice  of 
his  wife,  in  tones  meant  to  be  harsh,  but 
which  no  ordinary  degree  of  passion  coidd 
rob  of  their  native  unctuousness. 

"  Git  up  f'm  dere,  you  lazy,  good-fuh-nuf- 
fin'  nigger  !  Is  you  gwine  ter  sleep  all  de 
mawnin'  ?  I 's  ti'ed  er  dis  yer  runnin'  'roun' 
all  night  an'  den  sleepin'  all  day.  You  won't 
git  dat  tater  patch  hoed  ovuh  ter-day  Tess'n 
you  git  up  f'm  dere  an'  git  at  it." 

Uncle  Wellington  rolled  over,  yawned  cav- 
ernously,  stretched  himself,  and  with  a  mut- 
tered protest  got  out  of  bed  and  put  on  his 
clothes.  Aunt  Milly  had  prepared  a  smoking 
breakfast  of  hominy  and  fried  bacon,  the  odor 
of  which  was  very  grateful  to  his  nostrils. 

"Is  breakfus'  done  ready?"  he  inquired, 
tentatively,  as  he  came  into  the  kitchen  and 
glanced  at  the  table. 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  209 

"  No,  it  ain't  ready,  an'  't  ain't  gwine  ter  be 
ready  'tel  you  tote  dat  wood  an'  water  in,"  re- 
plied aunt  Milly  severely,  as  she  poured  two 
teacups  of  boiling  water  on  two  tablespoon- 
fuls  of  ground  coffee. 

Uncle  Wellington  went  down  to  the  spring 
and  got  a  pail  of  water, '  after  which  he 
brought  in  some  oak  logs  for  the  fireplace 
and  some  lightwood  for  kindling.  Then  he 
drew  a  chair  towards  the  table  and  started  to 
sit  down. 

"  Wonduh  what 's  de  matter  wid  you  dis 
mawnin'  anyhow,"  remarked  aunt  Milly. 
"  You  must  'a'  be'n  up  ter  some  devilment 
las'  night,  fer  yo'  recommemb'ance  is  so  po' 
dat  you  f us'  fergit  ter  git  up,  an'  den  fergit 
ter  wash  yo'  face  an'  hands  fo'  you  set  down 
ter  de  table.  I  don'  'low  nobody  ter  eat  at 
my  table  dat  a-way." 

"  I  don'  see  no  use  'n  washin'  'em  so 
much,"  replied  Wellington  wearily.  "  Dey 
gits  dirty  ag'in  right  off,  an'  den  you  got  ter 
wash  'em  ovuh  ag'in  ;  it 's  jes'  pilin'  up  wuk 
what  don'  fetch  in  nuf&n'.  De  dirt  don' 
show  nohow,  'n'  I  don'  see  no  advantage  in 
bein'  black,  ef  you  got  to  keep  on  washin' 
yo'  face  V  han's  jes'  lack  w'ite  folks."     He 


210  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

nevertheless  performed  his  ablutions  in  a  per- 
functory way,  and  resumed  his  seat  at  the 
breakfast-table. 

"  Ole  'oman,"  he  asked,  after  the  edge  of 
his  appetite  had  been  taken  off,  "  how  would 
you  lack  ter  live  at  de  Norf  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  nuffin'  'bout  de  Norf,"  replied 
aunt  Milly.  "  It 's  hard  'nuff  ter  git  erlong 
heah,  whar  we  knows  all  erbout  it." 

"  De  brother  what  'dressed  de  meetin'  las' 
night  say  dat  de  wages  at  de  Norf  is  twicet 
ez  big  ez  dey  is  heah." 

"  You  could  make  a  si^ht  mo'  wa^es  heah 
ef  you  'd  'ten'  ter  yo'  wuk  better,"  replied 
aunt  Milly. 

Uncle  Wellington  ignored  this  personality, 
and  continued,  "  An'  he  say  de  cullud  folks 
got  all  de  privileges  er  de  w'ite  folks,  — 
dat  dey  chillen  goes  ter  school  tergedder, 
dat  dey  sets  on  same  seats  in  chu'ch,  an' 
sarves  on  jury,  'n'  rides  on  de  kyars  an'  steam- 
boats wid  de  w'ite  folks,  an'  eats  at  de  fus' 
table." 

"  Dat  'u'd  suit  you,"  chuckled  aunt  Milly, 
"  an'  you  'd  stay  dere  fer  de  secon'  table,  too. 
How  dis  man  know  'bout  all  dis  yer  foolis'- 
ness?"  she  asked  incredulously. 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  211 

"  He  come  f 'm  de  Norf,"  said  uncle  Wel- 
lington, "  an'  he  'speunced  it  all  hisse'f ." 

"  Well,  he  can't  make  me  b'lieve  it,"  she 
rejoined,  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 

"  An'  you  would  n-  lack  ter  go  up  dere 
an'  'joy  all  dese  privileges  ? "  asked  uncle 
Wellington,  with  some  degree  of  earnest- 
ness. 

The  old  woman  laughed  until  her  sides 
shook.  "  Who  gwine  ter  take  me  up  dere  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  You  got  de  money  yo'se'f ." 

"  I  ain'  got  no  money  fer  ter  was'e,"  she 
replied  shortly,  becoming  serious  at  once ; 
and  with  that  the  subject  was  dropped. 

Uncle  Wellington  pulled  a  hoe  from  under 
the  house,  and  took  his  way  wearily  to  the 
potato  patch.  He  did  not  feel  like  working, 
but  aunt  Milly  was  the  undisputed  head  of 
the  establishment,  and  he  did  not  dare  to 
openly  neglect  his  work.  In  fact,  he  re- 
garded work  at  any  time  as  a  disagreeable 
necessity  to  be  avoided  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. 

His  wife  was  cast  in  a  different  mould. 
Externally  she  would  have  impressed  the 
casual  observer  as  a  neat,  well-preserved,  and 


212  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

good-looking  black  woman,  of  middle  age, 
every  curve  of  whose  ample  figure  —  and 
her  figure  was  all  curves  —  was  suggestive 
of  repose.  So  far  from  being  indolent,  or 
even  deliberate  in  her  movements,  she  was 
the  most  active  and  energetic  woman  in  the 
town.  She  went  through  the  physical  exer- 
cises of  a  prayer-meeting  with  astonishing 
vigor.  It  was  exhilarating  to  see  her  wash  a 
shirt,  and  a  study  to  watch  her  do  it  up.  A 
quick  jerk  shook  out  the  dampened  garment ; 
one  pass  of  her  ample  palm  spread  it  over  the 
ironing-board,  and  a  few  well-directed  strokes 
with  the  iron  accomplished  what  would  have 
occupied  the  ordinary  laundress  for  half  an 
hour. 

To  this  uncommon,  and  in  uncle  Welling- 
ton's opinion  unnecessary  and  unnatural  ac- 
tivity, his  own  habits  were  a  steady  protest. 
If  aunt  Milly  had  been  willing  to  support 
him  in  idleness,  he  would  have  acquiesced 
without  a  murmur  in  her  habits  of  industry. 
This  she  would  not  do,  and,  moreover,  in- 
sisted on  his  working  at  least  half  the  time. 
If  she  had  invested  the  proceeds  of  her  labor 
in  rich  food  and  fine  clothing,  he  might  have 
endured   it  better ;    but   to  her   passion    for 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  213 

work  was  added  a  most  detestable  thrift. 
She  absolutely  refused  to  pay  for  Wellington's 
clothes,  and  required  him  to  furnish  a  certain 
proportion  of  the  family  supplies.  Her  sav- 
ings were  carefully  put  by,  and  with  them 
she  had  bought  and  paid  for  the  modest  cot- 
tage which  she  and  her  husband  occupied. 
Under  her  careful  hand  it  was  always  neat 
and  clean  ;  in  summer  the  little  yard  was  gay 
with  bright-colored  flowers,  and  woe  to  the 
heedless  pickaninny  who  should  stray  into  her 
yard  and  pluck  a  rose  or  a  verbena !  In  a 
stout  oaken  chest  under  her  bed  she  kept  a 
capacious  stocking,  into  which  flowed  a  steady 
stream  of  fractional  currency.  She  carried 
the  key  to  this  chest  in  her  pocket,  a  pro- 
ceeding regarded  by  uncle  Wellington  with 
no  little  disfavor.  He  was  of  the  opinion  — 
an  opinion  he  would  not  have  dared  to  assert 
in  her  presence  —  that  his  wife's  earnings 
were  his  own  property ;  and  he  looked  upon 
this  stocking  as  a  drunkard's  wife  might  re- 
gard the  saloon  which  absorbed  her  husband's 
wages. 

Uncle  Wellington  hurried  over  the  potato 
patch  on  the  morning  of  the  conversation 
above  recorded,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  aunt 


214  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

Milly  go  away  with  a  basket  of  clothes  on 
her  head,  returned  to  the  house,  put  on  his 
coat,  and  went  uptown. 

He  directed  his  steps  to  a  small  frame 
building  fronting  on  the  main  street  of  the 
village,  at  a  point  where  the  street  was  inter- 
sected by  one  of  the  several  creeks  mean- 
dering through  the  town,  cooling  the  air, 
providing  numerous  swimming-holes  for  the 
amphibious  small  boy,  and  furnishing  water- 
power  for  grist-mills  and  saw-mills.  The  rear 
of  the  building  rested  on  long  brick  pillars, 
built  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  steep  bank 
of  the  creek,  while  the  front  was  level  with 
the  street.  This  was  the  office  of  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Wright,  the  sole  representative  of  the 
colored  race  at  the  bar  of  Chinquapin  County. 
Mr.  Wright  came  of  an  "  old  issue "  free 
colored  family,  in  which,  though  the  negro 
blood  was  present  in  an  attenuated  strain,  a 
line  of  free  ancestry  could  be  traced  beyond 
the  Revolutionary  War.  He  had  enjoyed 
exceptional  opportunities,  and  enjoyed  the 
distinction  of  being  the  first,  and  for  a  long 
time  the  only  colored  lawyer  in  North  Caro- 
lina. His  services  were  frequently  called  into 
requisition  by  impecunious  people  of  his  own 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  215 

race ;  when  they  had  money  they  went  to 
white  lawyers,  who,  they  shrewdly  conjec- 
tured, would  have  more  influence  with  judge 
or  jury  than  a  colored  lawyer,  however  able. 

Uncle  Wellington  found  Mr.  Wright  in  his 
office.  Having  inquired  after  the  health  of 
the  lawyer's  family  and  all  his  relations  in 
detail,  uncle  Wellington  asked  for  a  profes- 
sional opinion. 

"  Mistah  Wright,  ef  a  man's  wife  got 
money,  whose  money  is  dat  bef o'  de  law  — 
his'n  er  her'n  ?  " 

The  lawyer  put  on  his  professional  air,  and 
replied :  — 

"  Under  the  common  law,  which  in  default 
of  special  legislative  enactment  is  the  law  of 
North  Carolina,  the  personal  property  of  the 
wife  belongs  to  her  husband." 

"  But  dat  don'  jes'  tech  de  p'int,  suh.  I 
wuz  axin'  'bout  money." 

"  You  see,  uncle  Wellington,  your  educa- 
tion has  not  rendered  you  familiar  with  legal 
phraseology.  The  term  {  personal  property  ' 
or  (  estate  '  embraces,  according  to  Blackstone, 
all  property  other  than  land,  and  therefore 
includes  money.  Any  money  a  man's  wife 
has  is  his,  constructively,  and  will  be  recog- 


216  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

nized  as  his  actually,  as  soon  as  he  can  secure 
possession  of  it." 

"  Dat  is  ter  say,  suh  —  my  eddication  don' 
quite  'low  me  ter  understan'  dat  —  dat  is  ter 
say     — 

"  That  is  to  say,  it  's  yours  when  you  get 
it.  It  is  n't  yours  so  that  the  law  will  help 
you  get  it ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  when  you 
once  lay  your  hands  on  it,  it  is  yours  so  that 
the  law  won't  take  it  away  from  you." 

Uncle  Wellington  nodded  to  express  his 
full  comprehension  of  the  law  as  expounded 
by  Mr.  Wright,  but  scratched  his  head  in 
a  way  that  expressed  some  disappointment. 
The  law  seemed  to  wobble.  Instead  of  en- 
abling him  to  stand  up  fearlessly  and  de- 
mand his  own,  it  threw  him  back  upon  his 
own  efforts;  and  the  prospect  of  his  being 
able  to  overpower  or  outwit  aunt  Milly  by 
any  ordinary  means  was  very  poor. 

He  did  not  leave  the  office,  but  hung 
around  awhile  as  though  there  were  some- 
thing further  he  wished  to  speak  about. 
Finally,  after  some  discursive  remarks  about 
the  crops  and  politics,  he  asked,  in  an  off- 
hand, disinterested  manner,  as  though  the 
thought  had  just  occurred  to  him  :  — 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  217 

"  Mistah  Wright,  w'ile  's  we  're  talkin'  'bout 
law  matters,  what  do  it  cos'  ter  git  a  def  oce  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances.  It 
is  n't  altogether  a  matter  of  expense.  Have 
you  and  aunt  Milly  been  having  trouble  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  suh ;  I  was  jes'  a-wond'rin'." 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  lawyer,  who  was 
fond  of  talking,  and  had  nothing  else  to  do 
for  the  moment,  "  a  divorce  is  not  an  easy 
thing  to  get  in  this  State  under  any  circum- 
stances. It  used  to  be  the  law  that  divorce 
could  be  granted  only  by  special  act  of  the 
legislature  ;  and  it  is  but  recently  that  the 
subject  has  been  relegated  to  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  courts." 

Uncle  Wellington  understood  a  part  of 
this,  but  the  answer  had  not  been  exactly  to 
the  point  in  his  mind. 

"  S'pos'n',  den,  jes'  fer  de  argyment,  me  an' 
my  ole  'oman  sh'd  fall  out  en  wanter  separate, 
how  could  I  git  a  def  oce  ?  " 

"  That  would  depend  on  what  you  quar- 
reled about.  It 's  pretty  hard  work  to  answer 
general  questions  in  a  particular  way.  If  you 
merely  wished  to  separate,  it  would  n't  be 
necessary  to  get  a  divorce ;  but  if  you  should 
want  to  marry  again,  you  would  have  to  be 


218  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

divorced,  or  else  you  would  be  guilty  of 
bigamy,  aud  could  be  sent  to  the  penitentiary. 
But,  by  the  way,  uncle  Wellington,  when 
were  you  married  ?  " 

"  I  got  married  'fo'  de  wah,  when  I  was 
livin'  down  on  Rockfish  Creek." 

"  When  you  were  in  slavery  ?  " 

"  Yas,  suh." 

"  Did  you  have  your  marriage  registered 
after  the  surrender  ?  " 

"  No,  suh  ;  never  knowed  nuffin'  'bout  dat." 

After  the  war,  in  North  Carolina  and  other 
States,  the  freed  people  who  had  sustained 
to  each  other  the  relation  of  husband  and 
wife  as  it  existed  among  slaves,  were  required 
by  law  to  register  their  consent  to  continue 
in  the  marriage  relation.  By  this  simple  expe- 
dient their  former  marriages  of  convenience 
received  the  sanction  of  law,  and  their  chil- 
dren the  seal  of  legitimacy.  In  many  cases, 
however,  where  the  parties  lived  in  districts 
remote  from  the  larger  towns,  the  ceremony 
was  neglected,  or  never  heard  of  by  the 
freedmen. 

"Well,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  if  that  is  the  case, 
and  you  and  aunt  Milly  should  disagree,  it 
wouldn't  be  necessary  for  you  to  get  a  divorce, 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  219 

even  if  you  should  want  to  marry  again.  You 
were  never  legally  married." 

"  So  Milly  ain't  my  lawful  wife,  den  ?  " 

"She  may  be  your  wife  in  one  sense  of  the 
word,  but  not  in  such  a  sense  as  to  render 
you  liable  to  punishment  for  bigamy  if  you 
should  marry  another  woman.  But  I  hope 
you  will  never  want  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind,  for  you  have  a  very  good  wife  now." 

Uncle  Wellington  went  away  thoughtfully, 
but  with  a  feeling  of  unaccustomed  lightness 
and  freedom.  He  had  not  felt  so  free  since 
the  memorable  day  when  he  had  first  heard  of 
the  Emancipation  Proclamation.  On  leaving 
the  lawyer's  office,  he  called  at  the  workshop 
of  one  of  his  friends,  Peter  Williams,  a  shoe- 
maker by  trade,  who  had  a  brother  living  in 
Ohio. 

"  Is  you  hearn  f'm  Sam  lately  ? "  uncle 
Wellington  inquired,  after  the  conversation 
had  drifted  through  the  usual  generalities. 

"His  mammy  got  er  letter  f'm  'im  las'  week; 
he  's  livin'  in  de  town  er  Groveland  now." 

"  How  's  he  gittin'  on  ?  " 

"  He  says  he  gittin'  on  monst'us  well.  He 
'low  ez  how  he  make  five  dollars  a  day  w'ite- 
washin',  an'  have  all  he  kin  do." 


220  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

The  shoemaker  related  various  details  of 
his  brother's  prosperity,  and  uncle  Welling- 
ton returned  home  in  a  very  thoughtful  mood, 
revolving  in  his  mind  a  plan  of  future  action. 
This  plan  had  been  vaguely  assuming  form 
ever  since  the  professor's  lecture,  and  the 
events  of  the  morning"  had  brought  out  the 
detail  in  bold  relief. 

Two  days  after  the  conversation  with  the 
shoemaker,  aunt  Milly  went,  in  the  afternoon, 
to  visit  a  sister  of  hers  who  lived  several  miles 
out  in  the  country.  During  her  absence, 
which  lasted  until  nightfall,  uncle  Welling- 
ton went  uptown  and  purchased  a  cheap  oil- 
cloth valise  from  a  shrewd  son  of  Israel, 
who  had  penetrated  to  this  locality  with  a 
stock  of  notions  and  cheap  clothing.  Uncle 
Wellington  had  his  purchase  done  up  in 
brown  paper,  and  took  the  parcel  under  his 
arm.  Arrived  at  home  he  unwrapped  the 
valise,  and  thrust  into  its  capacious  jaws  his 
best  suit  of  clothes,  some  underwear,  and  a 
few  other  small  articles  for  personal  use  and 
adornment.  Then  he  carried  the  valise  out 
into  the  yard,  and,  first  looking  cautiously 
around  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  in  sight, 
concealed  it  in  a  clump  of  bushes  in  a  corner 
of  the  yard. 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  221 

It  may  be  inferred  from  this  proceeding 
that  uncle  Wellington  was  preparing  for  a 
step  of  some  consequence.  In  fact,  he  had 
fully  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  the  North ; 
but  he  still  lacked  the  most  important  requi- 
site for  traveling  with  comfort,  namely,  the 
money  to  pay  his  expenses.  The  idea  of 
tramping  the  distance  which  separated  him 
from  the  promised  land  of  liberty  and  equality 
had  never  occurred  to  him.  When  a  slave, 
he  had  several  times  been  importuned  by  fel- 
low servants  to  join  them  in  the  attempt  to 
escape  from  bondage,  but  he  had  never 
wanted  his  freedom  badly  enough  to  walk  a 
thousand  miles  for  it ;  if  he  could  have 
gone  to  Canada  by  stage-coach,  or  by  rail,  or 
on  horseback,  with  stops  for  regular  meals, 
he  would  probably  have  undertaken  the  trip. 
The  funds  he  now  needed  for  his  journey 
were  in  aunt  Milly's  chest.  He  had  thought 
a  great  deal  about  his  right  to  this  money. 
It  was  his  wife's  savings,  and  he  had  never 
dared  to  dispute,  openly,  her  right  to  exercise 
exclusive  control  over  what  she  earned ;  but 
the  lawyer  had  assured  him  of  his  right  to  the 
money,  of  which  he  was  already  constructively 
in  possession,  and    he   had    therefore   deter- 


222  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

mined  to  possess  himself  actually  of  the 
coveted  stocking.  It  was  impracticable  for 
him  to  get  the  key  of  the  chest.  Aunt  Milly 
kept  it  in  her  pocket  by  day  and  under  her 
pillow  at  night.  She  was  a  light  sleeper,  and, 
if  not  awakened  by  the  abstraction  of  the 
key,  would  certainly  have  been  disturbed  by 
the  unlocking  of  the  chest.  But  one  alterna- 
tive remained,  and  that  was  to  break  open  the 
chest  in  her  absence. 

There  was  a  revival  in  progress  at  the  col- 
ored Methodist  church.  Aunt  Milly  was  as 
energetic  in  her  religion  as  in  other  respects, 
and  had  not  missed  a  single  one  of  the  meet- 
ings. She  returned  at  nightfall  from  her 
visit  to  the  country  and  prepared  a  frugal 
supper.  Uncle  Wellington  did  not  eat  as 
heartily  as  usual.  Aunt  Milly  perceived  his 
want  of  appetite,  and  spoke  of  it.  He  ex- 
plained it  by  saying  that  he  did  not  feel  very 
well. 

"  Is  you  gwine  ter  chu'ch  ter-night  ? " 
inquired  his  wife. 

"  I  reckon  I  '11  stay  home  an'  go  ter  bed," 
he  replied.  "  I  ain't  be'n  feelin'  well  dis 
evenin',  an'  I  'spec'  I  better  git  a  good  night's 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  223 

"  Well,  you  kin  stay  ef  you  mineter.  Good 
preacliin'  'u'd  make  you  feel  better,  but  ef 
you  ain't  gwine,  don'  fergit  ter  tote  in  some 
wood  an'  lighterd  'fo'  you  go  ter  bed.  De 
moon  is  sliinin'  bright,  an'  you  can't  have  no 
'scuse  'bout  not  bein'  able  ter  see." 

Uncle  Wellington  followed  her  out  to  the 
gate,  and  watched  her  receding  form  until  it 
disappeared  in  the  distance.  Then  he  re- 
entered the  house  with  a  quick  step,  and  tak- 
ing a  hatchet  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  drew 
the  chest  from  under  the  bed.  As  he  applied 
the  hatchet  to  the  fastenings,  a  thought 
struck  him,  and  by  the  flickering  light  of  the 
pine-knot  blazing  on  the  hearth,  a  look  of 
hesitation  might  have  been  seen  to  take  the 
place  of  the  determined  expression  his  face 
had  worn  up  to  that  time.  He  had  argued 
himself  into  the  belief  that  his  present  action 
was  lawful  and  justifiable.  Though  this  con- 
viction had  not  prevented  him  from  trembling 
in  every  limb,  as  though  he  were  committing 
a  mere  vulgar  theft,  it  had  still  nerved  him  to 
the  deed.  Now  even  his  moral  courage  began 
to  weaken.  The  lawyer  had  told  him  that  his 
wife's  property  was  his  own ;  in  taking  it  he 
was  therefore  only  exercising  his  lawful  right. 


224  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

But  at  the  point  of  breaking  open  the  chest, 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  taking  this 
money  in  order  to  get  away  from  aunt  Milly, 
and  that  he  justified  his  desertion  of  her  by 
the  lawyer's  opinion  that  she  was  not  his  law- 
ful wife.  If  she  was  not  his  wife,  then  he  had 
no  right  to  take  the  money  ;  if  she  was  his 
wife,  he  had  no  right  to  desert  her,  and  would 
certainly  have  no  right  to  marry  another 
woman.  His  scheme  was  about  to  go  to 
shipwreck  on  this  rock,  when  another  idea 
occurred  to  him. 

"  De  lawyer  say  dat  in  one  sense  er  de  word 
de  ole  'oman  is  my  wife,  an'  in  anudder  sense 
er  de  word  she  ain't  my  wife.  Ef  I  goes  ter 
de  Norf  an'  marry  a  w'ite  'oman,  I  ain't  com- 
mit no  brigamy,  'caze  in  dat  sense  er  de  word 
she  ain't  my  wife  ;  but  ef  I  takes  dis  money, 
I  ain't  stealin'  it,  'caze  in  dat  sense  er  de  word 
she  is  my  wife.  Dat  'splains  all  de  trouble 
away." 

Having  reached  this  ingenious  conclusion, 
uncle  Wellington  applied  the  hatchet  vigor' 
ously,  soon  loosened  the  fastenings  of  the 
chest,  and  with  trembling  hands  extracted 
from  its  depths  a  capacious  blue  cotton  stock-' 
ing.     He  emptied  the  stocking  on  the  table. 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  225 

His  first  impulse  was  to  take  the  whole,  but 
again  there  arose  in  his  mind  a  doubt  —  a 
very  obtrusive,  unreasonable  doubt,  but  a 
doubt,  nevertheless — of  the  absolute  rectitude 
of  his  conduct ;  and  after  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion he  hurriedly  counted  the  money  —  it 
was  in  bills  of  small  denominations  —  and 
found  it  to  be  about  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars.  He  then  divided  it  into  two  piles 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  each. 
He  put  one  pile  into  his  pocket,  returned  the 
remainder  to  the  stocking,  and  replaced  it 
where  he  had  found  it.  He  then  closed  the 
chest  and  shoved  it  under  the  bed.  After 
ha  vino-  arranged  the  fire  so  that  it  could 
safely  be  left  burning,  he  took  a  last  look 
around  the  room,  and  went  out  into  the  moon- 
light, locking  the  door  behind  him,  and 
hanging  the  key  on  a  nail  in  the  wall,  where 
his  wife  would  be  likely  to  look  for  it.  He 
then  secured  his  valise  from  behind  the 
bushes,  and  left  the  yard.  As  he  passed  by 
the  wood-pile,  he  said  to  himself  :  — 

"  Well,  I  declar'  ef  I  ain't  done  fergot  ter 
tote  in  dat  lighterd ;  I  reckon  de  ole  'oman,  '11 
ha'  ter  fetch  it  in  herse'f  dis  time." 

He   hastened   through    the   quiet   streets, 


226  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

avoiding  the  few  people  wlio  were  abroad  at 
that  hour,  and  soon  reached  the  railroad  sta- 
tion, from  which  a  North-bound  train  left  at 
nine  o'clock.  He  went  around  to  the  dark 
side  of  the  train,  and  climbed  into  a  second- 
class  car,  where  he  shrank  into  the  darkest 
corner  and  turned  his  face  away  from  the  dim 
light  of  the  single  dirty  lamp.  There  were 
no  passengers  in  the  car  except  one  or  two 
sleepy  negroes,  who  had  got  on  at  some  other 
station,  and  a  white  man  who  had  gone  into 
the  car  to  smoke,  accompanied  by  a  gigantic 
bloodhound. 

Finally  the  train  crept  out  of  the  station. 
From  the  window  uncle  Wellington  looked 
out  upon  the  familiar  cabins  and  turpentine 
stills,  the  new  barrel  factory,  the  brickyard 
where  he  had  once  worked  for  some  time ; 
and  as  the  train  rattled  through  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  he  saw  gleaming  in  the  moon- 
light the  white  headstones  of  the  colored  ceme- 
tery  where  his  only  daughter  had  been  buried 
several  years  before. 

Presently  the  conductor  came  around. 
Uncle  Wellington  had  not  bought  a  ticket, 
and  the  conductor  collected  a  cash  fare.  He 
was    not   acquainted  with  uncle  Wellington, 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  227 

but  had  just  had  a  drink  at  the  saloon  near 
the  depot,  and  felt  at  peace  with  all  man- 
kind. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  uncle  ?  "  he  in- 
quired carelessly. 

Uncle  Wellington's  face  assumed  the  ashen 
hue  which  does  duty  for  pallor  in  dusky 
countenances,  and  his  knees  began  to  tremble. 
Controlling  his  voice  as  well  as  he  could,  he 
replied  that  he  was  going  up  to  Jonesboro, 
the  terminus  of  the  railroad,  to  work  for  a 
gentleman  at  that  place.  He  felt  immensely 
relieved  when  the  conductor  pocketed  the 
fare,  picked  up  his  lantern,  and  moved  away. 
It  was  very  unphilosophical  and  very  absurd 
that  a  man  who  was  only  doing  right  should 
feel  like  a  thief,  shrink  from  the  sight  of 
other  people,  and  lie  instinctively.  Fine  dis- 
tinctions were  not  in  uncle  Wellington's  line, 
but  he  was  struck  by  the  unreasonableness  of 
his  feelings,  and  still  more  by  the  discomfort 
they  caused  him.  By  and  by,  however,  the 
motion  of  the  train  made  him  drowsy ;  his 
thoughts  all  ran  together  in  confusion  ;  and 
he  fell  asleep  with  his  head  on  his  valise,  and 
one  hand  in  his  pocket,  clasped  tightly  around 
the  roll  of  money. 


228  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

II 

The  train  from  Pittsburg  drew  into  the 
Union  Depot  at  Groveland,  Ohio,  one  morn- 
ing in  the  spring  of  187-,  with  bell  ringing 
and  engine  puffing ;  and  from  a  smoking-car 
emerged  the  form  of  uncle  Wellington  Bra- 
boy,  a  little  dusty  and  travel-stained,  and  with 
a  sleepy  look  about  his  eyes.  He  mingled  in 
the  crowd,  and,  valise  in  hand,  moved  toward 
the  main  exit  from  the  depot.  There  were 
several  tracks  to  be  crossed,  and  more  than 
once  a  watchman  snatched  him  out  of  the 
way  of  a  baggage-truck,  or  a  train  backing 
into  the  depot.  He  at  length  reached  the 
door,  beyond  which,  and  as  near  as  the  regu- 
lations would  permit,  stood  a  number  of  hack- 
men,  vociferously  soliciting  patronage.  One 
of  them,  a  colored  man,  soon  secured  several 
passengers.  As  he  closed  the  door  after  the 
last  one  he  turned  to  uncle  Wellington,  who 
stood  near  him  on  the  sidewalk,  looking  about 
irresolutely. 

"  Is  you  goin'  uptown  ?  "  asked  the  hack- 
man,  as  he  prepared  to  mount  the  box. 

"  Yas,  suh." 

"  I  '11  take  you  up  fo'  a  quahtah,  ef  you 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  229 

want  ter  git  up  here  an'  ride  on  de  box  wid 
me." 

Uncle  Wellington  accepted  the  offer  and 
mounted  the  box.  The  hackman  whipped  up 
his  horses,  the  carriage  climbed  the  steep  hill 
leading  up  to  the  town,  and  the  passengers 
inside  were  soon  deposited  at  their  hotels. 

"  Whereabouts  do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  asked 
the  hackman  of  uncle  Wellington,  when  the 
carriage  was  emptied  of  its  last  passengers. 

"  I  want  ter  go  ter  Brer  Sam  Williams's," 
said  Wellington. 

"  What 's  his  street  an'  number  ?  " 

Uncle  Wellington  did  not  know  the  street 
and  number,  and  the  hackman  had  to  explain 
to  him  the  mystery  of  numbered  houses,  to 
which  he  was  a  total  stranger. 

"  Where  is  he  from  ?  "  asked  the  hackman, 
"  and  what  is  his  business  ?  " 

"  He  is  f'm  Norf  Ca'lina,"  replied  uncle 
Wellington,  "  an'  makes  his  livin'  w'ite- 
washin'." 

"  I  reckon  I  knows  de  man,"  said  the 
hackman.  "I  'spec'  he's  changed  his  name. 
De  man  I  knows  is  name'  Johnson.  He 
b'longs  ter  my  chu'ch.  I  'm  gwine  out  dat 
way  ter  git  a  passenger  fer  de  ten  o'clock 
train,  an'  I'll  take  you  by  dere." 


230  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

They  followed  one  of  the  least  handsome 
streets  of  the  city  for  more  than  a  mile, 
turned  into  a  cross  street,  and  drew  up  before 
a  small  frame  house,  from  the  front  of  which 
a  sign,  painted  in  white  upon  a  black  back- 
ground, announced  to  the  reading  public,  in 
letters  inclined  to  each  other  at  various  an- 
gles, that  whitewashing  and  kalsomining  were 
"  dun  "  there.  A  knock  at  the  door  brought 
out  a  slatternly  looking  colored  woman.  She 
had  evidently  been  disturbed  at  her  toilet,  for 
she  held  a  comb  in  one  hand,  and  the  hair  on 
one  side  of  her  head  stood  out  loosely,  while 
on  the  other  side  it  was  braided  close  to  her 
head.  She  called  her  husband,  who  proved 
to  be  the  Patesville  shoemaker's  brother. 
The  hackman  introduced  the  traveler,  whose 
name  he  had  learned  on  the  way  out,  collected 
his  quarter,  and  drove  away. 

Mr.  Johnson,  the  shoemaker's  brother,  wel- 
comed uncle  Wellington  to  Groveland,  and 
listened  with  easrer  delight  to  the  news  of  the 
old  town,  from  which  he  himself  had  run 
away  many  years  before,  and  followed  the 
North  Star  to  Groveland.  He  had  changed 
his  name  from  "  Williams  "  to  "  Johnson,"  on 
account  of  the  Fugitive  Slave   Law,  which, 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  231 

at  the  time  of  his  escape  from  bondage,  had 
rendered  it  advisable  for  runaway  slaves  to 
court  obscurity.  After  the  war  he  had  re- 
tained the  adopted  name.  Mrs.  Johnson  pre- 
pared breakfast  for  her  guest,  who  ate  it  with 
an  appetite  sharpened  by  his  journey.  After 
breakfast  he  went  to  bed,  and  slept  until  late 
in  the  afternoon. 

After  supper  Mr.  Johnson  took  uncle  Wel- 
lington to  visit  some  of  the  neighbors  who 
had  come  from  North  Carolina  before  the 
war.  They  all  expressed  much  pleasure  at 
meeting  "  Mr.  Braboy,"  a  title  which  at  first 
sounded  a  little  odd  to  uncle  Wellington. 
At  home  he  had  been  "  Wellin'ton,"  "  Brer 
Wellin'ton,"  or  "  uncle  Wellin'ton  ; "  it  was 
a  novel  experience  to  be  called  "  Mister,"  and 
he  set  it  down,  with  secret  satisfaction,  as  one 
of  the  first  fruits  of  Northern  liberty. 

"  Would  you  lack  ter  look  'roun'  de  town 
a  little  ? "  asked  Mr.  Johnson  at  breakfast 
next  morning.  "  I  ain'  got  no  job  dis  niawn- 
in',  an'  I  kin  show  you  some  er  de  sights." 

Uncle  Wellington  acquiesced  in  this  ar- 
rangement, and  they  walked  up  to  the  cor- 
ner to  the  street-car  line.  In  a  few  moments 
a  car  passed.     Mr.  Johnson  jumped  on  the 


232  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

moving  car,  and  uncle  Wellington  followed 
his  example,  at  the  risk  of  life  or  limb,  as  it 
was  his  first  experience  of  street  cars. 

There  was  only  one  vacant  seat  in  the  car 
and  that  was  between  two  white  women  in 
the  forward  end.  Mr.  Johnson  motioned  to 
the  seat,  but  Wellington  shrank  from  walking 
between  those  two  rows  of  white  people,  to 
say  nothing  of  sitting  between  the  two  women, 
so  he  remained  standing  in  the  rear  part  of 
the  car.  A  moment  later,  as  the  car  rounded 
a  short  curve,  he  was  pitched  sidewise  into 
the  lap  of  a  stout  woman  magnificently  at- 
tired in  a  ruffled  blue  calico  gown.  The 
lady  colored  up,  and  uncle  Wellington,  as  he 
struggled  to  his  feet  amid  the  laughter  of  the 
passengers,  was  absolutely  helpless  with  em- 
barrassment, until  the  conductor  came  up 
behind  him  and  pushed  him  toward  the 
vacant  place. 

"  Sit  down,  will  you,"  he  said ;  and  before 
uncle  Wellington  could  collect  himself,  he 
was  seated  between  the  two  white  women. 
Everybody  in  the  car  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
him.  But  he  came  to  the  conclusion,  after 
he  had  pulled  himself  together  and  reflected 
a    few    moments,    that    he    would    find    this 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  233 

method  of  locomotion  pleasanter  when  he 
got  used  to  it,  and  then  he  could  score  one 
more  glorious  privilege  gained  by  his  change 
of  residence. 

They  got  off  at  the  public  square,  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  where  there  were  flowers 
and  statues,  and  fountains  playing.  Mr. 
Johnson  pointed  out  the  court-house,  the 
post-office,  the  jail,  and  other  public  build- 
ings fronting  on  the  square.  They  visited  the 
market  near  by,  and  from  an  elevated  point, 
looked  down  upon  the  extensive  lumber  yards 
and  factories  that  were  the  chief  sources  of 
the  city's  prosperity.  Beyond  these  they  could 
see  the  fleet  of  ships  that  lined  the  coal 
and  iron  ore  docks  of  the  harbor.  Mr.  John- 
son, who  was  quite  a  fluent  talker,  enlarged 
upon  the  wealth  and  prosperity  of  the  city  ; 
and  Wellington,  who  had  never  before  been 
in  a  town  of  more  than  three  thousand  inhab- 
itants, manifested  sufficient  interest  and  won- 
der to  satisfy  the  most  exacting  cicerone. 
They  called  at  the  office  of  a  colored  lawyer 
and  member  of  the  legislature,  formerly  from 
North  Carolina,  who,  scenting  a  new  constitu- 
ent and  a  possible  client,  greeted  the  stranger 
warmly,  and  in  flowing  speech  pointed    out 


234  UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

the  superior  advantages  of  life  at  the  North, 
citing  himself  as  an  illustration  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  life  in  a  country  really  free.  As 
they  wended  their  way  homeward  to  dinner 
uncle  Wellington,  with  quickened  pulse  and 
rising  hopes,  felt  that  this  was  indeed  the 
promised  land,  and  that  it  must  be  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey. 

Uncle  Wellington  remained  at  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Johnson  for  several  weeks  before  mak- 
ing any  effort  to  find  employment.  He  spent 
this  period  in  looking  about  the  city.  The 
most  commonplace  things  possessed  for  him 
the  charm  of  novelty,  and  he  had  come  pre- 
pared to  admire.  Shortly  after  his  arrival,  he 
had  offered  to  pay  for  his  board,  intimating 
at  the  same  time  that  he  had  plenty  of  money. 
Mr.  Johnson  declined  to  accept  anything 
from  him  for  board,  and  expressed  himself  as 
being  only  too  proud  to  have  Mr.  Braboy  re- 
main in  the  house  on  the  footing  of  an  hon- 
ored guest,  until  he  had  settled  himself.  He 
lightened  in  some  degree,  however,  the  burden 
of  obligation  under  which  a  prolonged  stay 
on  these  terms  would  have  placed  his  guest, 
by  soliciting  from  the  latter  occasional  small 
loans,  until  uncle  Wellington's  roll  of  money 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  235 

began  to  lose  its  plumpness,  and  with  an 
empty  pocket  staring  him  in  the  face,  he  felt 
the  necessity  of  finding  something  to  do. 

During  his  residence  in  the  city  he  had  met 
several  times  his  first  acquaintance,  Mr.  Peter- 
son, the  hackman,  who  from  time  to  time 
inquired  how  he  was  getting  along.  On  one 
of  these  occasions  Wellington  mentioned  his 
willingness  to  accept  employment.  As  good 
luck  would  have  it,  Mr.  Peterson  knew  of 
a  vacant  situation.  He  had  formerly  been 
coachman  for  a  wealthy  gentleman  residing 
on  Oakwood  Avenue,  but  had  resigned  the 
situation  to  go  into  business  for  himself.  His 
place  had  been  filled  by  an  Irishman,  who 
had  just  been  discharged  for  drunkenness,  and 
the  gentleman  that  very  day  had  sent  word  to 
Mr.  Peterson,  asking  him  if  he  could  recom- 
mend a  competent  and  trustworthy  coachman. 

"  Does  you  know  anything  erbout  hosses  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Peterson. 

"  Yas,  indeed,  I  does,"  said  Wellington. 
"  I  wuz  raise'  'mongs'  hosses." 

"  I  tol'  my  ole  boss  I  'd  look  out  f  er  a  man, 
an'  ef  you  reckon  you  kin  fill  de  'quirements 
er  de  situation,  I  '11  take  yo'  roun'  dere  ter- 
niorrer  mornin'.     You  wants  ter  put  on  yo' 


236  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

bes'  clothes  an'  slick  up,  f  er  dey  're  partic'lar 
people.  Ef  you  git  de  place  I  '11  expec'  you 
ter  pay  nie  fer  de  time  I  lose  in  'tendin'  ter 
yo'  business,  fer  time  is  money  in  dis  country, 
an'  folks  don't  do  much  fer  nuthin'." 

Next  morning;  Wellington  blacked  his  shoes 
carefully,  put  on  a  clean  collar,  and  with  the 
aid  of  Mrs.  Johnson  tied  his  cravat  in  a 
jaunty  bow  which  gave  him  quite  a  sprightly 
air  and  a  much  younger  look  than  his  years 
warranted.  Mr.  Peterson  called  for  him  at 
eight  o'clock.  After  traversing  several  cross 
streets  they  turned  into  Oakwood  Avenue  and 
walked  along  the  finest  part  of  it  for  about 
half  a  mile.  The  handsome  houses  of  this 
famous  avenue,  the  stately  trees,  the  wide- 
spreading  lawns,  dotted  with  flower  beds, 
fountains  and  statuary,  made  up  a  picture  so 
far  surpassing  anything  in  Wellington's  ex- 
perience as  to  fill  him  with  an  almost  oppres- 
sive sense  of  its  beauty. 

"  Hit  looks  lack  hebben,"  he  said  softly. 

"  It 's  a  pootty  fine  street,"  rejoined  his 
companion,  with  a  judicial  air,  "but  I  don't 
like  dem  big  lawns.  It 's  too  much  trouble 
ter  keep  de  grass  down.  One  er  dem  lawns 
is  big  enough  to  pasture  a  couple  er  cows." 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  237 

They  went  down  a  street  running  at  right 
angles  to  the  avenue,  and  turned  into  the 
rear  of  the  corner  lot.  A  large  building  of 
pressed  brick,  trimmed  with  stone,  loomed  up 
before  them. 

"  Do  de  gemman  lib  in  dis  house  ?  "  asked 
Wellington,  gazing  with  awe  at  the  front  of 
the  building. 

"  No,  dat  's  de  barn,"  said  Mr.  Peterson 
with  good-natured  contempt ;  and  leading  the 
way  past  a  clump  of  shrubbery  to  the  dwell- 
ing-house, he  went  up  the  back  steps  and  rang 
the  door-bell. 

The  ring  was  answered  by  a  buxom  Irish- 
woman, of  a  natural  freshness  of  complexion 
deepened  to  a  fiery  red  by  the  heat  of  a 
kitchen  range.  Wellington  thought  he  had 
seen  her  before,  but  his  mind  had  received  so 
many  new  impressions  lately  that  it  was  a 
minute  or  two  before  he  recognized  in  her  the 
lady  whose  lap  he  had  involuntarily  occupied 
for  a  moment  on  his  first  day  in  Groveland. 

"  Faith,"  she  exclaimed  as  she  admitted 
them,  "  an'  it  's  mighty  glad  I  am  to  see 
ye  ag'in,  Misther  Payterson !  An'  how  hev 
ye  be'n,  Misther  Payterson,  sence  I  see  ye 
lahst?" 


238  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

"  Middlin'  well,  Mis'  Flannigan,  middlin' 
well,  'ceptin'  a  tecli  er  de  rheuinatiz.  S'pose 
you  be'n  doin'  well  as  usual  ?  " 

"  Oh  yis,  as  well  as  a  dacent  woman  could 
do  wid  a  drunken  baste  about  the  place  like 
the  lahst  coachman.  0  Misther  Payterson, 
it  would  make  yer  heart  bleed  to  see  the  way 
the  spalpeen  cut  up  a-Saturday  !  But  Misther 
Todd  discharged  'im  the  same  avenin',  widout 
a  characther,  bad  'cess  to  'im,  an'  we  've  had 
no  coachman  sence  at  all,  at  all.  An'  it's 
sorry  I  am  "  — 

The  lady's  flow  of  eloquence  was  interrupted 
at  this  point  by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Todd 
himself,  who  had  been  informed  of  the  men's 
arrival.  He  asked  some  questions  in  regard 
to  Wellington's  qualifications  and  former  ex- 
perience, and  in  view  of  his  recent  arrival  in 
the  city  was  willing  to  accept  Mr.  Peterson's 
recommendation  instead  of  a  reference.  He 
said  a  few  words  about  the  nature  of  the 
work,  and  stated  his  willingness  to  pay  Wel- 
lington the  wages  formerly  allowed  Mr.  Peter- 
son, thirty  dollars  a  month  and  board  and 
lod^inof. 

This  handsome  offer  was  eagerly  accepted, 
and  it  was  agreed  that  Wellington's  term  of 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  239 

service  should  begin  immediately.  Mr.  Peter- 
son, being  familiar  with  the  work,  and  finan- 
cially interested,  conducted  the  new  coachman 
through  the  stables  and  showed  him  what  he 
would  have  to  do.  The  silver-mounted  har- 
ness, the  variety  of  carriages,  the  names  of 
which  he  learned  for  the  first  time,  the  ar- 
rangements for  feeding  and  watering  the 
horses,  —  these  appointments  of  a  rich  man's 
stable  impressed  Wellington  very  much,  and 
he  wondered  that  so  much  luxury  should  be 
wasted  on  mere  horses.  The  room  assigned 
to  him,  in  the  second  story  of  the  barn,  was 
a  finer  apartment  than  he  had  ever  slept  in ; 
and  the  salary  attached  to  the  situation  was 
greater  than  the  combined  monthly  earnings 
of  himself  and  aunt  Milly  in  their  Southern 
home.  Surely,  he  thought,  his  lines  had 
fallen  in  pleasant  places. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  new  surroundings 
Wellington  applied  himself  diligently  to  work, 
and,  with  the  occasional  advice  of  Mr.  Peter- 
son, soon  mastered  the  details  of  his  employ- 
ment. He  found  the  female  servants,  with 
whom  he  took  his  meals,  very  amiable  ladies. 
The  cook,  Mrs.  Katie  Flannigan,  was  a  widow. 
Her  husband,  a  sailor,  had  been  lost  at  sea. 


240  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

She  was  a  woman  of  many  words,  and  when 
she  was  not  lamenting  the  late  Flannigan's 
loss,  —  according  to  her  story  he  had  been  a 
model  of  all  the  virtues,  —  she  would  turn 
the  batteries  of  her  tongue  against  the  former 
coachman.  This  gentleman,  as  Wellington 
gathered  from  frequent  remarks  dropped  by 
Mrs.  Flannigan,  had  paid  her  attentions  clearly 
susceptible  of  a  serious  construction.  These 
attentions  had  not  borne  their  legitimate  fruit, 
and  she  was  still  a  widow  unconsoled,  —  hence 
Mrs.  Flannigan's  tears.  The  housemaid  was 
a  plump,  good-natured  German  girl,  with  a 
pronounced  German  accent.  The  presence 
on  washdays  of  a  Bohemian  laundress,  of  re- 
cent importation,  added  another  to  the  variety 
of  ways  in  which  the  English  tongue  was 
mutilated  in  Mr.  Todd's  kitchen.  Association 
with  the  white  women  drew  out  all  the  native 
gallantry  of  the  mulatto,  and  Wellington  de- 
veloped quite  a  helpful  turn.  His  politeness, 
his  willingness  to  lend  a  hand  in  kitchen  or 
laundry,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  the  only 
male  servant  on  the  place,  combined  to  make 
him  a  prime  favorite  in  the  servants'  quarters. 
It  was  the  general  opinion  among  Welling- 
ton's acquaintances  that  he  was  a  single  man. 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  241 

He  had  come  to  the  city  alone,  had  never 
been  heard  to  speak  of  a  wife,  and  to  personal 
questions  bearing  upon  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony had  always  returned  evasive  answers. 
Though  he  had  never  questioned  the  correct- 
ness of  the  lawyer's  opinion  in  regard  to  his 
slave  marriage,  his  conscience  had  never  been 
entirely  at  ease  since  his  departure  from  the 
South,  and  any  positive  denial  of  his  married 
condition  would  have  stuck  in  his  throat. 
The  inference  naturally  drawn  from  his  reti- 
cence in  regard  to  the  past,  coupled  with  his 
expressed  intention  of  settling  permanently 
in  Groveland,  was  that  he  belonged  in  the 
ranks  of  the  unmarried,  and  was  therefore 
legitimate  game  for  any  widow  or  old  maid 
who  could  bring  him  down.  As  such  game 
is  bagged  easiest  at  short  range,  he  received 
numerous  invitations  to  tea-parties,  where  he 
feasted  on  unlimited  chicken  and  pound  cake. 
He  used  to  compare  these  viands  with  the 
plain  fare  often  served  by  aunt  Milly,  and 
the  result  of  the  comparison  was  another  item 
to  the  credit  of  the  North  upon  his  mental 
ledger.  Several  of  the  colored  ladies  who 
smiled  upon  him  were  blessed  with  good  looks, 
and  uncle  Wellington,  naturally  of  a  suscep- 


242    .  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

tible  temperament,  as  people  of  lively  imagi- 
nation are  apt  to  be,  would  probably  have 
fallen  a  victim  to  the  charms  of  some  wo- 
man of  his  own  race,  had  it  not  been  for  a 
strong  counter-attraction  in  the  person  of 
Mrs.  Flannigan.  The  attentions  of  the  lately 
discharged  coachman  had  lighted  anew  the 
smouldering  fires  of  her  widowed  heart,  and 
awakened  longings  which  still  remained  un- 
satisfied. She  was  thirty-five  years  old,  and 
felt  the  need  of  some  one  else  to  love.  She 
was  not  a  woman  of  lofty  ideals ;  with  her  a 
man  was  a  man  — 

"  For  a'  that  an'  a'  that  ; " 

and,  aside  from  the  accident  of  color,  uncle 
Wellington  was  as  personable  a  man  as  any 
of  her  acquaintance.  Some  people  might 
have  objected  to  his  complexion ;  but  then, 
Mrs.  Flannigan  argued,  he  was  at  least  half 
white ;  and,  this  being  the  case,  there  was  no 
good  reason  why  he  should  be  regarded  as 
black. 

Uncle  Wellington  was  not  slow  to  perceive 
Mrs.  Flannigan's  charms  of  person,  and  ap- 
preciated to  the  full  the  skill  that  prepared 
the  choice  tidbits  reserved  for  his  plate  at 
dinner.     The  prospect    of    securing  a  white 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  243 

wife  had  been  one  of  the  principal  induce- 
ments offered  by  a  life  at  the  North  ;  but 
the  awe  of  white  people  in  which  he  had  been 
reared  was  still  too  strong  to  permit  his  tak- 
ing any  active  steps  toward  the  object  of  his 
secret  desire,  had  not  the  lady  herself  come 
to  his  assistance  with  a  little  of  the  native 
coquetry  of  her  race. 

"Ah,  Misther  Braboy,"  she  said  one  evening 
when  they  sat  at  the  supper  table  alone,  —  it 
was  the  second  girl's  afternoon  off,  and  she 
had  not  come  home  to  supper,  —  "  it  must  be 
an  awful  lonesome  life  ye  've  been  afther 
Fadin',  as  a  single  man,  wid  no  one  to  cook 
fer  ye,  or  look  afther  ye." 

"  It  are  a  kind  er  lonesome  life,  Mis'  Flan- 
nigan,  an'  dat's  a  fac'.  But  sence  I  had  de 
privilege  er  eatin'  yo'  cookin'  an'  'joyin'  yo' 
society,  I  ain'  felt  a  bit  lonesome."' 

"  Yer  flatthrin'  me,  Misther  Braboy.  An' 
even  if  ye  mane  it"  — 

"  I  means  eve'y  word  of  it,  Mis'  Flanni- 
gan." 

"  An'  even  if  ye  mane  it,  Misther  Braboy, 
the  time  is  liable  to  come  when  things  '11  be 
different ;  for  service  is  uncertain,  Misther  Bra- 
boy. An'  then  you  '11  wish  you  had  some  nice, 


244  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

clean  woman,  'at  knowed  how  to  cook  an'  wash 
an'  iron,  ter  look  afther  ye,  an'  make  yer  life 
comfortable." 

Uncle  Wellington  sighed,  and  looked  at 
her  languishingly. 

"  It  'u'd  all  be  well  ernuff,  Mis'  Flannigan, 
ef  I  had  n'  met  you  ;  but  I  don'  know  whar 
I 's  ter  fin'  a  colored  lady  w'at  '11  begin  ter 
suit  me  after  habbin'  libbed  in  de  same  house 
wid  you." 

"  Colored  lady,  indade  !  Why,  Misther  Bra- 
boy,  ye  don't  nade  ter  demane  yerself  by 
marryin'  a  colored  lady  —  not  but  they  're  as 
good  as  anybody  else,  so  long  as  they  behave 
themselves.  There  's  many  a  white  woman 
'u'd  be  glad  ter  git  as  fine  a  lookin'  man  as  ye 
are." 

"  Now  you  We  flattrin'  me,  Mis'  Flanni- 
gan,"  said  Wellington.  But  he  felt  a  sudden 
and  substantial  increase  in  courage  when  she 
had  spoken,  and  it  was  with  astonishing  ease 
that  he  found  himself  saying  :  — 

"  Dey  ain'  but  one  lady,  Mis'  Flannigan, 
dat  could  injuce  me  ter  want  ter  change  de 
lonesomeness  er  my  singleness  fer  de  'sponsi- 
bilities  er  matermony,  an'  I  'm  feared  she  'd 
say  no  ef  I  'd  ax  her." 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  245 

"  Ye  'd  better  ax  her,  Misther  Braboy,  an' 
not  be  wastin'  time  a-wond'rin'.  Do  I  know 
the  lady?" 

"  You  knows  'er  better  'n  anybody  else, 
Mis'  Flannigan.  You  is  de  only  lady  I  'd  be 
satisfied  ter  marry  after  knowin'  you.  Ef  you 
casts  me  off  I  '11  spen'  de  rest  er  my  days  in 
lonesomeness  an'  mis'ry." 

Mrs.  Flannigan  affected  much  surprise  and 
embarrassment  at  this  bold  declaration. 

"  Oh,  Misther  Braboy,"  she  said,  covering 
him  with  a  coy  glance,  "  an'  it 's  rale  'shamed 
I  am  to  hev  b'en  talkin'  ter  ye  ez  I  hev.  It 
looks  as  though  I  'd  b'en  doin'  the  coortin'. 
I  did  n't  drame  that  I  'd  b'en  able  ter  draw 
yer  affections  to  mesilf." 

"  I 's  loved  you  ever  sence  I  fell  in  yo'  lap 
on  de  street  car  de  fus'  day  I  wuz  in  Grove- 
land,"  he  said,  as  he  moved  his  chair  up 
closer  to  hers. 

One  evening  in  the  following  week  they 
went  out  after  supper  to  the  residence  of 
Rev.  Csesar  Williams,  pastor  of  the  colored 
Baptist  church,  and,  after  the  usual  prelimi- 
naries, were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 


246  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

III 

According  to  all  his  preconceived  notions, 
this  marriage  ought  to  have  been  the  acme 
of  uncle  Wellington's  felicity.  But  he  soon 
found  that  it  was  not  without  its  drawbacks. 
On  the  following  morning  Mr.  Todd  was  in- 
formed of  the  marriage.  He  had  no  special 
objection  to  it,  or  interest  in  it,  except  that  he 
was  opposed  on  principle  to  having  husband 
and  wife  in  his  employment  at  the  same  time. 
As  a  consequence,  Mrs.  Braboy,  whose  place 
could  be  more  easily  filled  than  that  of  her 
husband,  received  notice  that  her  services 
would  not  be  required  after  the  end  of  the 
month.  Her  husband  was  retained  in  his 
place  as  coachman. 

Upon  the  loss  of  her  situation,  Mrs.  Braboy 
decided  to  exercise  the  married  woman's  pre- 
rogative of  letting  her  husband  support  her. 
She  rented  the  upper  floor  of  a  small  house 
in  an  Irish  neighborhood.  The  newly  wedded 
pair  furnished  their  rooms  on  the  installment 
plan  and  began  housekeeping. 

There  was  one  little  circumstance,  however, 
that  interfered  slightly  with  their  enjoyment 
of  that  perfect  freedom  from  care  which  ought 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  247 

to  characterize  a  honeymoon.  The  people 
who  owned  the  house  and  occupied  the  lower 
floor  had  rented  the  upper  part  to  Mrs. 
Braboy  in  person,  it  never  occurring  to  them 
that  her  husband  could  be  other  than  a  white 
man.  When  it  became  known  that  he  was 
colored,  the  landlord,  Mr.  Dennis  0' Flaherty, 
felt  that  he  had  been  imposed  upon,  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  first  month,  served  notice  upon 
his  tenants  to  leave  the  premises.  When 
Mrs.  Braboy,  with  characteristic  impetuosity, 
inquired  the  meaning  of  this  proceeding,  she 
was  informed  by  Mr.  O'Flaherty  that  he  did 
not  care  to  live  in  the  same  house  "  wid 
naygurs."  Mrs.  Braboy  resented  the  epithet 
with  more  warmth  than  dignity,  and  for  a 
brief  space  of  time  the  air  was  green  with 
choice  specimens  of  brogue,  the  altercation 
barely  ceasing  before  it  had  reached  the  point 
of  blows. 

It  was  quite  clear  that  the  Braboys  could 
not  longer  live  comfortably  in  Mr.  O'Fla- 
herty's  house,  and  they  soon  vacated  the  prem- 
ises, first  letting  the  rent  get  a  couple  of 
weeks  in  arrears  as  a  punishment  to  the  too 
fastidious  landlord.  They  moved  to  a  small 
house  on  Hackman  Street,  a  favorite  locality 
with  colored  people. 


248  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

For  a  while,  affairs  ran  smoothly  in  the  new 
home.  The  colored  people  seemed,  at  first, 
well  enough  disposed  toward  Mrs.  Braboy, 
and  she  made  quite  a  large  acquaintance 
among  them.  It  was  difficult,  however,  for 
Mrs.  Braboy  to  divest  herself  of  the  conscious- 
ness that  she  was  white,  and  therefore  superior 
to  her  neighbors.  Occasional  words  and  acts 
by  which  she  manifested  this  feeling  were 
noticed  and  resented  by  her  keen-eyed  and 
sensitive  colored  neighbors.  The  result  was 
a  slight  coolness  between  them.  That  her 
few  white  neighbors  did  not  visit  her,  she 
naturally  and  no  doubt  correctly  imputed  to 
disapproval  of  her  matrimonial  relations. 

Under  these  circumstances,  Mrs.  Braboy 
was  left  a  good  deal  to  her  own  company. 
Owing  to  lack  of  opportunity  in  early  life,  she 
was  not  a  woman  of  many  resources,  either 
mental  or  moral.  It  is  therefore  not  strange 
that,  in  order  to  relieve  her  loneliness,  she 
should  occasionally  have  recourse  to  a  glass 
of  beer,  and,  as  the  habit  grew  upon  her, 
to  still  stronger  stimulants.  Uncle  Welling- 
ton himself  was  no  teetotaler,  and  did  not 
interpose  any  objection  so  long  as  she  kept 
her  potations  within   reasonable   limits,   and 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  249 

was  apparently  none  the  worse  for  them ; 
indeed,  he  sometimes  joined  her  in  a  glass. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  he  drank  a  little 
too  much,  and,  while  driving  the  ladies  of 
Mr.  Todd's  family  to  the  opera,  ran  against  a 
lamp-post  and  overturned  the  carriage,  to  the 
serious  discomposure  of  the  ladies'  nerves, 
and  at  the  cost  of  his  situation. 

A  coachman  discharged  under  such  cir- 
cumstances is  not  in  the  best  position  for 
procuring  employment  at  his  calling,  and 
uncle  Wellington,  under  the  pressure  of 
need,  was  obliged  to  seek  some  other  means 
of  livelihood.  At  the  suggestion  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Johnson,  he  bought  a  whitewash  brush,  a 
peck  of  lime,  a  couple  of  pails,  and  a  hand- 
cart, and  began  work  as  a  whitewasher.  His 
first  efforts  were  very  crude,  and  for  a  while 
he  lost  a  customer  in  every  person  he  worked 
for.  He  nevertheless  managed  to  pick  up  a 
living  during  the  spring  and  summer  months, 
and  to  support  his  wife  and  himself  in  com- 
parative comfort. 

The  approach  of  winter  put  an  end  to  the 
whitewashing  season,  and  left  uncle  Welling- 
ton dependent  for  support  upon  occasional  jobs 
of  unskilled  labor.     The  income  derived  from 


250  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

these  was  very  uncertain,  and  Mrs.  Braboy 
was  at  length  driven,  by  stress  of  circum- 
stances, to  the  washtub,  that  last  refuge  of 
honest,  able-bodied  poverty,  in  all  countries 
where  the  use  of  clothing  is  conventional. 

The  last  state  of  uncle  Wellington  was  now 
worse  than  the  first.  Under  the  soft  firm- 
ness of  aunt  Milly's  rule,  he  had  not  been 
required  to  do  a  great  deal  of  work,  prompt 
and  cheerful  obedience  being  chiefly  what  was 
expected  of  him.  But  matters  were  very  dif- 
ferent here.  He  had  not  only  to  bring  in  the 
coal  and  water,  but  to  rub  the  clothes  and 
turn  the  wringer,  and  to  humiliate  himself 
before  the  public  by  emptying  the  tubs  and 
hanging"  out  the  wash  in  full  view  of  the 
neighbors  ;  and  he  had  to  deliver  the  clothes 
when  laundered. 

At  times  Wellington  found  himself  won- 
derma;  if  his  second  marriage  had  been  a  wise 
one.  Other  circumstances  combined  to  change 
in  some  degree  his  once  rose-colored  concep- 
tion of  life  at  the  North.  He  had  believed 
that  all  men  were  equal  in  this  favored  local- 
ity, but  he  discovered  more  degrees  of  inequal- 
ity than  he  had  ever  perceived  at  the  South. 
A  colored  man  might  be  as  good  as  a  white 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  251 

man  in  theory,  but  neither  of  them  was  of  any 
special  consequence  without  money,  or  talent, 
or  position.  Uncle  Wellington  found  a  great 
many  privileges  open  to  him  at  the  North,  but 
he  had  not  been  educated  to  the  point  where 
he  could  appreciate  them  or  take  advantage 
of  them  ;  and  the  enjoyment  of  many  of  them 
was  expensive,  and,  for  that  reason  alone,  as 
far  beyond  his  reach  as  they  had  ever  been. 
When  he  once  began  to  admit  even  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  mistake  on  his  part,  these  con- 
siderations presented  themselves  to  his  mind 
with  increasing-  force.  On  occasions  when 
Mrs.  Braboy  would  require  of  him  some  un- 
usual physical  exertion,  or  when  too  fre- 
quent applications  to  the  bottle  had  loosened 
her  tongue,  uncle  Wellington's  mind  would 
revert,  with  a  remorseful  twinge  of  conscience, 
to  the  dolcefar  niente  of  his  Southern  home  ; 
a  film  would  come  over  his  eyes  and  brain, 
and,  instead  of  the  red-faced  Irishwoman  op- 
posite him,  he  could  see  the  black  but  comely 
disk  of  aunt  Milly's  countenance  bending 
over  the  washtub  ;  the  elegant  brogue  of  Mrs. 
Braboy  would  deliquesce  into  the  soft  dialect 
of  North  Carolina ;  and  he  would  only  be 
aroused  from   this    blissful  reverie  by  a  wet 


252  UNCLE    WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

shirt  or  a  handful  of  suds  thrown  into  his 
face,  with  which  gentle  reminder  his  wife 
would  recall  his  attention  to  the  duties  of 
the  moment. 

There  came  a  time,  one  day  in  spring, 
when  there  was  no  longer  any  question  about 
it :  uncle  Wellington  was  desperately  home- 
sick. 

Liberty,  equality,  privileges,  —  all  were  but 
as  dust  in  the  balance  when  weighed  against 
his  longing  for  old  scenes  and  faces.  It  was 
the  natural  reaction  in  the  mind  of  a  middle- 
aged  man  who  had  tried  to  force  the  current 
of  a  sluggish  existence  into  a  new  and  radi- 
cally different  channel.  An  active,  industri- 
ous man,  making  the  change  in  early  life, 
while  there  was  time  to  spare  for  the  waste 
of  adaptation,  might  have  found  in  the  new 
place  more  favorable  conditions  than  in  the 
old.  In  Wellington  age  and  temperament 
combined  to  prevent  the  success  of  the  exper- 
iment ;  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  ambition 
into  which  he  had  been  temporarily  galvan- 
ized could  no  longer  prevail  against  the  iner- 
tia of  old  habits  of  life  and  thought. 

One  day  when  he  had  been  sent  to  deliver 
clothes  he  performed  his  errand  quickly,  and 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  253 

boarding  a  passing  street  car,  paid  one  of  his 
very  few  five-cent  pieces  to  ride  down  to  the 
office  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  Brown,  the  colored 
lawyer  whom  he  had  visited  when  he  first 
came  to  the  city,  and  who  was  well  known 
to  him  by  sight  and  reputation. 

"Mr.  Brown,"  he  said, "I  ain'  gitt'n'  'long 
very  well  wid  my  ole  'oman." 

"  What 's  the  trouble  ?  "  asked  the  lawyer, 
with  business-like  curtness,  for  he  did  not 
scent  much  of  a  fee. 

"  Well,  de  main  trouble  is  she  doan  treat 
me  right.  An'  den  she  gits  drunk,  an'  wuss'n 
dat,  she  lays  vi'lent  han's  on  me.  I  kyars  de 
marks  er  dat  'oman  on  my  face  now." 

He  showed  the  lawyer  a  long  scratch  on  the 
neck. 

"  Why  don't  you  defend  yourself  ?  " 

"  You  don'  know  Mis'  Braboy,  suh ;  you 
don'  know  dat  'oman,"  he  replied,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head.  "  Some  er  dese  yer  w'ite 
women  is  monst'us  strong  in  de  wris'." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Braboy,  it 's  what  you  might 
have  expected  when  you  turned  your  back 
on  your  own  people  and  married  a  white 
woman.  You  were  n't  content  with  being 
a  slave  to  the  white  folks  once,  but  you  must 


254  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WUrES 

try  it  again.  Some  people  never  know  when 
they  've  got  enough.  I  don't  see  that  there  's 
any  help  for  you  ;  unless,"  he  added  sugges- 
tively, "  you  had  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"  'Pears  ter  me  I  heared  somebody  say 
sence  I  be'n  up  heah,  dat  it  wuz  'gin  de  law 
fer  w'ite  folks  an'  colored  folks  ter  marry." 

"  That  was  once  the  law,  though  it  has 
always  been  a  dead  letter  in  Groveland.  In 
fact,  it  was  the  law  when  you  got  married, 
and  until  I  introduced  a  bill  in  the  legislature 
last  fall  to  repeal  it.  But  even  that  law 
did  n't  hit  cases  like  yours.  It  was  unlawful 
to  make  such  a  marriage,  but  it  was  a  good 
marriage  when  once  made." 

"  I  don'  jes'  git  dat  th'oo  my  head,"  said 
Wellington,  scratching  that  member  as  though 
to  make  a  hole  for  the  idea  to  enter. 

"  It 's  quite  plain,  Mr.  Braboy.  It 's  un- 
lawful to  kill  a  man,  but  when  he  's  killed 
he  's  just  as  dead  as  though  the  law  permitted 
it.  I  'm  afraid  you  have  n't  much  of  a  case, 
but  if  you  '11  go  to  work  and  get  twenty-five 
dollars  together;  I  '11  see  what  I  can  do  for 
you.  We  may  be  able  to  pull  a  case  through 
on  the  ground  of  extreme  cruelty.  I  might 
even  start  the  case  if  you  brought  in  ten 
dollars." 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  255 

Wellington  went  away  sorrowfully.  The 
laws  of  Ohio  were  very  little  more  satisfactory 
than  those  of  North  Carolina.  And  as  for 
the  ten  dollars,  —  the  lawyer  might  as  well 
have  told  him  to  bring  in  the  moon,  or  a 
deed  for  the  Public  Square.  He  felt  very, 
very  low  as  he  hurried  back  home  to  supper, 
which  he  would  have  to  go  without  if  he  were 
not  on  hand  at  the  usual  supper-time. 

But  just  when  his  spirits  were  lowest,  and 
his  outlook  for  the  future  most  hopeless,  a 
measure  of  relief  was  at  hand.  He  noticed, 
when  he  reached  home,  that  Mrs.  Braboy 
was  a  little  preoccupied,  and  did  not  abuse 
him  as  vigorously  as  he  expected  after  so 
long  an  absence.  He  also  perceived  the  smell 
of  strange  tobacco  in  the  house,  of  a  better 
grade  than  he  could  afford  to  use.  He 
thought  perhaps  some  one  had  come  in  to 
see  about  the  washing ;  but  he  was  too  glad 
of  a  respite  from  Mrs.  Braboy's  rhetoric  to 
imperil  it  by  indiscreet  questions. 

Next  morning  she  gave  him  fifty  cents. 

"  Braboy,"  she  said,  "  ye  've  be'n  helpin' 
me  nicely  wid  the  washin',  an'  I  'm  going  ter 
give  ye  a  holiday.  Ye  can  take  yer  hook  an' 
line  an'  go  fishin'  on  the  breakwater.    I  '11  fix 


256  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

ye  a  lunch,  an'  ye  need  n't  come  back  till 
nio'ht.  An'  there  's  half  a  dollar  ;  ye  can  buy 
yerself  a  pipe  er  terbacky.  But  be  careful 
an'  don't  waste  it,"  she  added,  for  fear  she 
was  overdoing  the  thing. 

Uncle  Wellington  was  overjoyed  at  this 
change  of  front  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Braboy ; 
if  she  would  make  it  permanent  he  did  not 
see  why  they  might  not  live  together  very 
comfortably. 

The  day  passed  pleasantly  down  on  the 
breakwater.  The  weather  was  agreeable,  and 
the  fish  bit  freely.  Towards  evening  Welling- 
ton started  home  with  a  bunch  of  fish  that 
no  angrier  need  have  been  ashamed  of.  He 
looked  forward  to  a  good  warm  supper ;  for 
even  if  something  should  have  happened 
during  the  day  to  alter  his  wife's  mood  for 
the  worse,  any  ordinary  variation  would  be 
more  than  balanced  by  the  substantial  ad- 
dition of  food  to  their  larder.  His  mouth 
watered  at  the  thought  of  the  finny  beauties 
sputtering  in  the  frying-pan. 

He  noted,  as  he  approached  the  house,  that 
there  was  no  smoke  coming  from  the  chimney. 
This  only  disturbed  him  in  connection  with 
the  matter  of  supper.     When  he  entered  the 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  257 

gate  he  observed  further  that  the  window- 
shades  had  been  taken  down. 

"  'Spec'  de  ole  'oman's  been  house-cleanin'," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  wonder  she  did  n' 
make  me  stay  an'  he'p  'er." 

He  went  round  to  the  rear  of  the  house 
and  tried  the  kitchen  door.  It  was  locked. 
This  was  somewhat  of  a  surprise,  and  dis- 
turbed still  further  his  expectations  in  regard 
to  supper.  When  he  had  found  the  key  and 
opened  the  door,  the  gravity  of  his  next 
discovery  drove  away  for  the  time  being  all 
thoughts  of  eating. 

The  kitchen  was  empty.  Stove,  table, 
chairs,  wash-tubs,  pots  and  pans,  had  vanished 
as  if  into  thin  air. 

"  Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake  ! "  he  murmured  in 
open-mouthed  astonishment. 

He  passed  into  the  other  room,  — they  had 
only  two, — which  had  served  as  bedroom  and 
sitting-room.  It  was  as  bare  as  the  first, 
except  that  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  were 
piled  uncle  Wellington's  clothes.  It  was  not 
a  large  pile,  and  on  the  top  of  it  lay  a  folded 
piece  of  yellow  wrapping-paper. 

Wellington  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  petri- 
fied. Then  he  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked 
around  him. 


258  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

"  Wat  do  dis  mean  ?  "  he  said.  "  Is  I  er- 
dreamin',  er  does  I  see  w'at  I  'pears  ter  see  ?  " 
He  glanced  down  at  the  bunch  of  fish  which 
he  still  held.  "  Heah  's  de  fish  ;  heah  's  de 
house;  heah  I  is  ;  but  whar  's  de  ole  'oman, 
an'  whar  's  de  f  u'niture  ?  /  can't  figure  out 
w'at  dis  yer  all  means." 

He  picked  up  the  piece  of  paper  and  un- 
folded it.  It  was  written  on  one  side.  Here 
was  the  obvious  solution  of  the  mystery,  — 
that  is,  it  would  have  been  obvious  if  he  could 
have  read  it ;  but  he  could  not,  and  so  his 
fancy  continued  to  play  upon  the  subject. 
Perhaps  the  house  had  been  robbed,  or  the 
furniture  taken  back  by  the  seller,  for  it  had 
not  been  entirely  paid  for. 

Finally  he  went  across  the  street  and  called 
to  a  boy  in  a  neighbor's  yard. 

"  Does  you  read  writin',  Johnnie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  'm  in  the  seventh  grade." 

"  Read  dis  yer  paper  fuh  me." 

The  youngster  took  the  note,  and  with  much 
labor  read  the  following  :  — 

"  Mr.  Braboy  : 

"  In  lavin'  ye  so  suddint  I  have  ter  say 
that  my  first  husban'  has  turned   up    unix- 


PERHAPS   THE    HOUSE   HAD   BEEN   ROBBED 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  259 

pected,  having  been  saved  onbeknownst  ter 
me  from  a  wathry  grave  an'  all  the  money 
wasted  I  spint  fer  masses  fer  ter  rist  his  sole 
an'  I  wish  I  had  it  back  I  feel  it  my  dooty  ter 
go  an'  live  wid  'im  again.  I  take  the  furna- 
cher  because  I  bought  it  yer  close  is  yors  I 
leave  them  and  wishin'  yer  the  best  of  luck 
I  remane  oncet  yer  wife  but  now  agin 

"  Mrs.  Katie  Flannigan. 
"  N.  B.     I  'm  lavin  town  terday  so  it  won't 
be  no  use  lookin'  fer  me." 

On  inquiry  uncle  Wellington  learned  from 
the  boy  that  shortly  after  his  departure  in  the 
morning  a  white  man  had  appeared  on  the 
scene,  followed  a  little  later  by  a  moving- 
van,  into  which  the  furniture  had  been  loaded 
and  carried  away.  Mrs.  Braboy,  clad  in  her 
best  clothes,  had  locked  the  door,  and  gone 
away  with  the  strange  white  man. 

The  news  was  soon  noised  about  the  street. 
Wellington  swapped  his  fish  for  supper  and  a 
bed  at  a  neighbor's,  and  during  the  evening 
learned  from  several  sources  that  the  strange 
white  man  had  been  at  his  house  the 
afternoon  of  the  day  before.  His  neighbors 
intimated   that   they  thought  Mrs.  Braboy's 


260  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

departure  a  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish, 
and  Wellington  did  not  dispute  the  proposi- 
tion. 

Thus  ended  the  second  chapter  of  Welling- 
ton's matrimonial  experiences.  His  wife's 
departure  had  been  the  one  thing  needful  to 
convince  him,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  he  had 
been  a  great  fool.  Remorse  and  homesick- 
ness forced  him  to  the  further  conclusion  that 
he  had  been  knave  as  well  as  fool,  and  had 
treated  aunt  Milly  shamefully.  He  was  not 
altogether  a  bad  old  man,  though  very  weak 
and  erring,  and  his  better  nature  now  gained 
the  ascendency.  Of  course  his  disappoint- 
ment had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his  remorse; 
most  people  do  not  perceive  the  hideousness 
of  sin  until  they  begin  to  reap  its  conse- 
quences. Instead  of  the  beautiful  Northern 
life  he  had  dreamed  of,  he  found  himself 
stranded,  penniless,  in  a  strange  land,  among 
people  whose  sympathy  he  had  forfeited,  with 
no  one  to  lean  upon,  and  no  refuge  from  the 
storms  of  life.  His  outlook  was  very  dark, 
and  there  sprang  up  within  him  a  wild  long- 
ing to  get  back  to  North  Carolina,  —  back 
to  the  little  whitewashed  cabin,  shaded  with 
china  and  mulberry  trees ;  back  to  the  wood- 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  261 

pile  and  the  garden ;  back  to  the  old  cronies 
with  whom  he  had  swaj:>ped  lies  and  tobacco 
for  so  many  years.  He  longed  to  kiss  the  rod 
of  aunt  Milly's  domination.  He  had  pur- 
chased his  liberty  at  too  great  a  price. 

The  next  day  he  disappeared  from  Grove- 
land.  He  had  announced  his  departure  only 
to  Mr.  Johnson,  who  sent  his  love  to  his 
relations  in  Patesville. 

It  would  be  painful  to  record  in  detail  the 
return  journey  of  uncle  Wellington  —  Mr. 
Braboy  no  longer — to  his  native  town  ;  how 
many  weary  miles  he  walked;  how  many  times 
he  risked  his  life  on  railroad  trucks  and  be- 
tween freight  cars;  how  he  depended  for 
sustenance  on  the  grudging  hand  of  back- 
door charity.  Nor  would  it  be  profitable  or 
delicate  to  mention  any  slight  deviations  from 
the  path  of  rectitude,  as  judged  by  conven- 
tional standards,  to  which  he  may  occasionally 
have  been  driven  by  a  too  insistent  hunger ; 
or  to  refer  in  the  remotest  degree  to  a  com- 
pulsory sojourn  of  thirty  days  in  a  city  where 
he  had  no  references,  and  could  show  no  vis- 
ible means  of  support.  True  charity  will  let 
these  purely  personal  matters  remain  locked 
in  the  bosom  of  him  who  suffered  them. 


262  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

IV 

Just  fifteen  months  after  the  date  when 
uncle  Wellington  had  left  North  Carolina,  a 
weather-beaten  figure  entered  the  town  of 
Patesville  after  nightfall,  following  the  rail- 
road track  from  the  north.  Few  would  have 
recognized  in  the  hungry-looking  old  brown 
tramp,  clad  in  dusty  rags  and  limping  along 
with  bare  feet,  the  trim-looking  middle-aged 
mulatto  who  so  few  months  before  had  taken 
the  train  from  Patesville  for  the  distant 
North ;  so,  if  he  had  but  known  it,  there  was 
no  necessity  for  him  to  avoid  the  main  streets 
and  sneak  around  by  unfrequented  paths  to 
reach  the  old  place  on  the  other  side  of  the 
town.  He  encountered  nobody  that  he  knew, 
and  soon  the  familiar  shape  of  the  little  cabin 
rose  before  him.  It  stood  distinctly  outlined 
against  the  sky,  and  the  light  streaming  from 
the  half-opened  shutters  showed  it  to  be  occu- 
pied. As  he  drew  nearer,  every  familiar  de- 
tail of  the  place  appealed  to  his  memory  and 
to  his  affections,  and  his  heart  went  out  to 
the  old  home  and  the  old  wife.  As  he  came 
nearer  still,  the  odor  of  fried  chicken  floated 
out  upon  the  air  and  set  his  mouth  to  water- 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES  263 

ing,  and  awakened  unspeakable  longings  in 
his  half-starved  stomach. 

At  this  moment,  however,  a  fearful  thought 
struck  him  ;  suppose  the  old  woman  had  taken 
legal  advice  and  married  again  during  his  ab- 
sence ?  Turn  about  would  have  been  only 
fair  play.  He  opened  the  gate  softly,  and  with 
his  heart  in  his  mouth  approached  the  window 
on  tiptoe  and  looked  in. 

A  cheerful  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth, 
in  front  of  which  sat  the  familiar  form  of 
aunt  Milly  —  and  another,  at  the  sight  of 
whom  uncle  Wellington's  heart  sank  within 
him.  He  knew  the  other  person  very  well ; 
he  had  sat  there  more  than  once  before  uncle 
Wellington  went  away.  It  was  the  minister 
of  the  church  to  which  his  wife  belonged. 
The  preacher's  former  visits,  however,  had 
signified  nothing  more  than  pastoral  courtesy, 
or  appreciation  of  good  eating.  His  presence 
now  was  of  serious  portent ;  for  Wellington 
recalled,  with  acute  alarm,  that  the  elder's 
wife  had  died  only  a  few  weeks  before  his 
own  departure  for  the  North.  What  was  the 
occasion  of  his  presence  this  evening  ?  Was 
it  merely  a  pastoral  call?  or  was  he  courting  ? 
or  had  aunt  Milly  taken  legal  advice  and  mar- 
ried the  elder  ? 


264  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S    WIVES 

Wellington  remembered  a  crack  in  the 
wall,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  through  which 
he  could  see  and  hear,  and  quietly  stationed 
himself  there. 

"  Dat  chicken  smells  mighty  good,  Sis' 
Milly,"  the  elder  was  saying ;  "  I  can't  fer  de 
life  er  me  see  why  dat  low-down  husban'  er 
yo'n  could  ever  run  away  f'm  a  cook  like  you. 
It 's  one  er  de  beatenis'  things  I  ever  beared. 
How  he  could  lib  wid  you  an'  not  'preciate 
you  /  can't  understan',  no  indeed  I  can't." 

Aunt  Milly  sighed.  "  De  trouble  wid 
Wellin'ton  wuz,"  she  replied,  "  dat  he  did  n' 
know  when  he  wuz  well  off.  He  wuz  alluz 
wishin'  fer  change,  er  studyin'  'bout  some- 
thin'  new." 

"Ez  fer  me,"  responded  the  elder  ear- 
nestly, "  I  likes  things  what  has  be'n  prove' 
an'  tried  an'  has  stood  de  tes',  an'  I  can't 
'magine  how  anybody  could  spec'  ter  fin'  a 
better  housekeeper  er  cook  dan  you  is,  Sis' 
Milly.  I  'm  a  gittin'  mighty  lonesone  sence 
my  wife  died.  De  Good  Book  say  it  is  not 
good  fer  man  ter  lib  alone,  en  it  'pears  ter  me 
dat  you  an'  me  mought  git  erlong  tergether 
monst'us  well." 

Wellington's    heart    stood   still,   while   he 


UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  265 

listened  with  strained  attention.  Aunt  Milly 
sighed. 

"  I  ain't  denyin',  elder,  but  what  I  've  be'n 
kinder  lonesome  myse'f  fer  quite  a  w'ile,  an' 
I  doan  doubt  dat  w'at  de  Good  Book  say 
'plies  ter  women  as  well  as  ter  men." 

"  You  kin  be  sho'  it  do,"  averred  the  elder, 
with  professional  authoritativeness ;  "  yas  'm, 
you  kin  be  cert'n  sho'." 

"  But,  of  co'se,"  aunt  Milly  went  on, 
"  havin'  los'  my  ole  man  de  way  I  did,  it  has 
tuk  me  some  time  fer  ter  git  my  feelin's 
straighten'  out  like  dey  oughter  be." 

"  I  kin  'magine  yo'  feelin's  Sis'  Milly," 
chimed  in  the  elder  sympathetically,  "  w'en 
you  come  home  dat  night  an'  foun'  yo'  chist 
broke  open,  an'  yo'  money  gone  dat  you  had 
wukked  an'  slaved  fun  f'm  mawnin'  'tel 
night,  year  in  an'  year  out,  an'  w'en  you 
foun'  dat  no-' count  nigger  gone  wid  his  clo's 
an'  you  lef  all  alone  in  de  worl'  ter  scuffle 
'long  by  yo'self." 

"  Yas,  elder,"  responded  aunt  Milly,  "  I 
wa'n't  used  rio-ht.  An'  den  w'en  I  beared 
'bout  his  goin'  ter  de  lawyer  ter  fin'  out  'bout 
a  defoce,  an'  w'en  I  heared  w'at  de  lawyer 
said   'bout   my  not   bein'   his    wife  'less    he 


266  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

wanted  me,  it  made  me  so  mad,  I  made  up 
my  min'  dat  ef  he  ever  put  his  foot  on  my  do'- 
sill  ag'in,  I  'd  shet  de  do'  in  his  face  an'  tell 
'im  ter  go  back  whar  he  come  f'm." 

To  Wellington,  on  the  outside,  the  cabin 
had  never  seemed  so  comfortable,  aunt  Milly 
never  so  desirable,  chicken  never  so  appetiz- 
ing, as  at  this  moment  when  they  seemed 
slipping  away  from  his  grasp  forever. 

"  Yo'  feelin's  does  you  credit,  Sis'  Milly," 
said  the  elder,  taking  her  hand,  which  for  a 
moment  she  did  not  withdraw.  "  An'  de  way 
fer  you  ter  close  yo'  do'  tightes'  ag'inst  'im  is 
ter  take  me  in  his  place.  He  ain'  got  no 
claim  on  you  no  mo'.  He  tuk  his  ch'ice 
'cordin'  ter  w'at  de  lawyer  tol'  'im,  an'  'ter- 
mine'  dat  he  wa'n't  yo'  husban'.  Ef  he 
wa'n't  yo'  husban',  he  had  no  right  ter  take 
yb'  money,  an'  ef  he  comes  back  here  ag'in 
you  kin  hab  'im  tuck  up  an'  sent  ter  de  peni- 
tenchy  fer  stealin'  it." 

Uncle  Wellington's  knees,  already  weak 
from  fasting,  trembled  violently  beneath  him. 
The  worst  that  he  had  feared  was  now  likely 
to  happen.  His  only  hope  of  safety  lay  in 
flight,  and  yet  the  scene  within  so  fascinated 
him  that  he  could  not  move  a  step. 


UNCLE  WELLINGTON'S   WIVES  267 

"  It  'u'd  serve  him  right,"  exclaimed  aunt 
Milly  indignantly,  "  ef  he  wuz  sent  ter  de 
penitenchy  fer  life !  Dey  ain't  nuthin'  too 
mean  ter  be  done  ter  'im.  What  did  I  ever 
do  dat  he  should  use  me  like  he  did  ?  " 

The  recital  of  her  wrongs  had  wrought 
upon  aunt  Milly's  feelings  so  that  her  voice 
broke,  and  she  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  apron. 

The  elder  looked  serenely  confident,  and 
moved  his  chair  nearer  hers  in  order  the 
better  to  play  the  role  of  comforter.  Wel- 
lington, on  the  outside,  felt  so  mean  that 
the  darkness  of  the  night  was  scarcely  suffi- 
cient to  hide  him ;  it  would  be  no  more  than 
right  if  the  earth  were  to  open  and  swallow 
him  up. 

"  An'  yet  aftuh  all,  elder,"  said  Milly  with 
a  sob,  "  though  I  knows  you  is  a  better  man, 
an'  would  treat  me  right,  I  wuz  so  use'  ter 
dat  ole  nigger,  an'  libbed  wid  'im  so  long, 
dat  ef  he  'd  open  dat  do'  dis  minute  an'  walk 
in,  I  'm  feared  I  'd  be  foolish  ernuff  an' 
weak  ernuff  to  forgive  'im  an'  take  'im  back 
ao;  in. 

With  a  bound,  uncle  Wellington  was  away 
from  the  crack  in  the  wall.  As  he  ran  round 
the  house  he  passed  the  wood-pile  and  snatched 


268  UNCLE   WELLINGTON'S   WIVES 

up  an  armful  of  pieces.     A  moment  later  he 
threw  open  the  door. 

"  Ole  'oman,"  he  exclaimed,  "  here 's  dat 
wood  you  tol'  me  ter  fetch  in  !  Why,  elder," 
he  said  to  the  preacher,  who  had  started  from 
his  seat  with  surprise,  "  w'at  's  yo'  hurry  ? 
Won't  you   stay  an'  hab    some    supper  wid 

O  " 

US  ( 


THE  BOUQUET 

Mary  Myrover's  friends  were  somewhat 
surprised  when  she  began  to  teach  a  colored 
school.  Miss  Myrover's  friends  are  mentioned 
here,  because  nowhere  more  than  in  a  South- 
ern town  is  public  opinion  a  force  which  can- 
not be  lightly  contravened.  Public  opinion, 
however,  did  not  oppose  Miss  Myrover's 
teaching  colored  children ;  in  fact,  all  the 
colored  public  schools  in  town  —  and  there 
were  several  —  were  taught  by  white  teachers, 
and  had  been  so  taught  since  the  State  had 
undertaken  to  provide  free  public  instruction 
for  all  children  within  its  boundaries.  Previ- 
ous  to  that  time,  there  had  been  a  Freedman's 
Bureau  school  and  a  Presbyterian  missionary 
school,  but  these  had  been  withdrawn  when 
the  need  for  them  became  less  pressing.  The 
colored  people  of  the  town  had  been  for  some 
time  agitating  their  right  to  teach  their  own 
schools,  but  as  yet  the  claim  had  not  been 
conceded. 


J 


270  THE  BOUQUET 

The  reason  Miss  My  rover's  course  created 
some  surprise  was  not,  therefore,  the  fact  that 
a  Southern  white  woman  should  teach  a  col- 
ored school ;  it  lay  in  the  fact  that  up  to  this 
time  no  woman  of  just  her  quality  had  taken 
up  such  work.  Most  of  the  teachers  of  col- 
ored schools  were  not  of  those  who  had  con- 
stituted the  aristocracy  of  the  old  regime ; 
they  might  be  said  rather  to  represent  the 
new  order  of  things,  in  which  labor  was  in 
time  to  become  honorable,  and  men  were, 
after  a  somewhat  longer  time,  to  depend,  for 
their  place  in  society,  upon  themselves  rather 
than  upon  their  ancestors.  Mary  Myrover 
belonged  to  one  of  the  proudest  of  the  old 
families.  Her  ancestors  had  been  people 
of  distinction  in  Virginia  before  a  collateral 
branch  of  the  main  stock  had  settled  in  North 
Carolina.  Before  the,  war,  they  had  been  able 
to  live  up  to  their  pedigree  ;  but  the  war 
brought  sad  changes.  Miss  Myrover's  father 
—  the  Colonel  Myrover  who  led  a  gallant  but 
desperate  charge  at  Vicksburg  —  had  fallen 
on  the  battlefield,  and  his  tomb  in  the  white 
cemetery  was  a  shrine  for  the  family.  On  the 
Confederate  Memorial  Day,  no  other  grave 
was  so  profusely  decorated  with  flowers,  and, 


THE  BOUQUET  271 

in  the  oration  pronounced,  the  name  of  Colo- 
nel My  rover  was  always  used  to  illustrate 
the  highest  type  of  patriotic  devotion  and 
self-sacrifice.  Miss  Myrover's  brother,  too, 
had  fallen  in  the  conflict ;  but  his  bones  lay 
in  some  unknown  trench,  with  those  of  a 
thousand  others  who  had  fallen  on  the  same 
field.  Ay,  more,  her  lover,  who  had  hoped 
to  come  home  in  the  full  tide  of  victory  and 
claim  his  bride  as  a  reward  for  gallantry,  had 
shared  the  fate  of  her  father  and  brother. 
When  the  war  was  over,  the  remnant  of  the 
family  found  itself  involved  in  the  common 
ruin,  —  more  deeply  involved,  indeed,  than 
some  others ;  for  Colonel  Myrover  had  be- 
lieved in  the  ultimate  triumph  of  his  cause, 
and  had  invested  most  of  his  wealth  in  Con- 
federate bonds,  which  were  now  only  so  much 
waste  paper. 

There  had  been  a  little  left.  Mrs.  Myrover 
was  thrifty,  and  had  laid  by  a  few  hundred 
dollars,  which  she  kept  in  the  house  to  meet 
unforeseen  contingencies.  There  remained, 
too,  their  home,  with  an  ample  garden  and  a 
well-stocked  orchard,  besides  a  considerable 
tract  of  country  land,  partly  cleared,  but  pro- 
ductive of  very  little  revenue. 


272  THE  BOUQUET 

With  their  shrunken  resources,  Miss  Myro- 
ver  and  her  mother  were  able  to  hold  up  their 
heads  without  embarrassment  for  some  years 
after  the  close  of  the  war.  But  when  things 
were  adjusted  to  the  changed  conditions,  and 
the  stream  of  life  began  to  flow  more  vigor- 
ously in  the  new  channels,  they  saw  them- 
selves in  danger  of  dropping  behind,  unless  in 
some  way  they  could  add  to  their  meagre  in- 
come. Miss  Myrover  looked  over  the  field  of 
employment,  never  very  wide  for  women  in 
the  South,  and  found  it  occupied.  The  only 
available  position  she  could  be  supposed  pre- 
pared to  fill,  and  which  she  could  take  with- 
out distinct  loss  of  caste,  was  that  of  a 
teacher,  and  there  was  no  vacancy  except  in 
one  of  the  colored  schools.  Even  teaching 
was  a  doubtful  experiment ;  it  was  not  what 
she  would  have  preferred,  but  it  was  the  best 
that  could  be  done. 

"  I  don't  like  it,  Mary,"  said  her  mother. 
u  It 's  a  long  step  from  owning  such  people 
to  teaching  them.  What  do  they  need  with 
education  ?  It  will  only  make  them  unfit  for 
work." 

"  They  're  free  now,  mother,  and  perhaps 
they  '11  work  better  if  they  're  taught  some- 


THE  BOUQUET  273 

thing.  Besides,  it 's  only  a  business  arrange- 
ment, and  does  n't  involve  any  closer  contact 
than  we  have  with  our  servants." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  not !  "  sniffed  the  old 
lady.  "  Not  one  of  them  will  ever  dare  to  pre- 
sume on  your  position  to  take  any  liberties 
with  us.     /'ll  see  to  that." 

Miss  Myrover  began  her  work  as  a  teacher 
in  the  autumn,  at  the  opening  of  the  school 
year.  It  was  a  novel  experience  at  first. 
Though  there  had  always  been  negro  servants 
in  the  house,  and  though  on  the  streets  colored 
people  were  more  numerous  than  those  of  her 
own  race,  and  though  she  was  so  familiar 
with  their  dialect  that  she  might  almost  be 
said  to  speak  it,  barring  certain  characteristic 
grammatical  inaccuracies,  she  had  never  been 
brought  in  personal  contact  with  so  many  of 
them  at  once  as  when  she  confronted  the  fifty 
or  sixty  faces  —  of  colors  ranging  from  a 
white  almost  as  clear  as  her  own  to  the  dark- 
est livery  of  the  sun  —  which  were  gathered 
in  the  schoolroom  on  the  morning  when  she 
began  her  duties.  Some  of  the  inherited 
prejudice  of  her  caste,  too,  made  itself  felt, 
though  she  tried  to  repress  any  outward  sign 
of  it ;  and  she  could  perceive  that  the  chil- 


274  THE  BOUQUET 

dren  were  not  altogether  responsive ;  they, 
likewise,  were  not  entirely  free  from  antago- 
nism. The  work  was  unfamiliar  to  her.  She 
was  not  physically  very  strong,  and  at  the  close 
of  the  first  day  went  home  with  a  splitting 
headache.  If  she  could  have  resigned  then 
and  there  without  causing  comment  or  annoy- 
ance to  others,  she  would  have  felt  it  a  privi- 
lege to  do  so.  But  a  night's  rest  banished 
her  headache  and  improved  her  spirits,  and 
the  next  morning  she  went  to  her  work  with 
renewed  vigor,  fortified  by  the  experience  of 
the  first  day. 

Miss  Myrover's  second  day  was  more  satis- 
factory. She  had  some  natural  talent  for 
organization,  though  hitherto  unaware  of  it, 
and  in  the  course  of  the  day  she  got  her 
classes  formed  and  lessons  under  way.  In  a 
week  or  two  she  began  to  classify  her  pupils 
in  her  own  mind,  as  bright  or  stupid,  mis- 
chievous or  well  behaved,  lazy  or  industrious, 
as  the  case  might  be,  and  to  regulate  her  dis- 
cipline accordingly.  That  she  had  come  of 
a  long  line  of  ancestors  who  had  exercised 
authority  and  mastership  was  perhaps  not 
without  its  effect  upon  her  character,  and 
enabled  her  more  readily  to  maintain   good 


THE  BOUQUET  275 

order  in  the  school.  When  she  was  fairly 
broken  in,  she  found  the  work  rather  to  her 
liking,  and  derived  much  pleasure  from  such 
success  as  she  achieved  as  a  teacher. 

It  was  natural  that  she  should  be  more  at- 
tracted to  some  of  her  pupils  than  to  others. 
Perhaps  her  favorite  —  or,  rather,  the  one 
she  liked  best,  for  she  was  too  fair  and  just 
for  conscious  favoritism  —  was  Sophy  Tucker. 
Just  the  ground  for  the  teacher's  liking  for 
Sophy  might  not  at  first  be  apparent.  The 
girl  was  far  from  the  whitest  of  Miss  Myro- 
ver's  pupils  ;  in  fact,  she  was  one  of  the  darker 
ones.  She  was  not  the  brightest  in  intellect, 
though  she  always  tried  to  learn  her  lessons. 
She  was  not  the  best  dressed,  for  her  mother 
was  a  poor  widow,  who  went  out  washing  and 
scrubbing  for  a  living.  Perhaps  the  real  tie 
between  them  was  Sophy's  intense  devotion 
to  the  teacher.  It  had  manifested  itself 
almost  from  the  first  day  of  the  school,  in  the 
rapt  look  of  admiration  Miss  Myrover  always 
saw  on  the  little  black  face  turned  toward 
her.  In  it  there  was  nothing  of  envy,  no- 
thing of  regret ;  nothing  but  worship  for  the 
beautiful  white  lady  —  she  was  not  especially 
handsome,   but    to    Sophy   her   beauty   was 


276  THE  BOUQUET 

almost  divine  —  who  had  come  to  teach  her. 
If  Miss  Myrover  dropped  a  book,  Sophy  was 
the  first  to  spring  and  pick  it  up ;  if  she 
wished  a  chair  moved,  Sophy  seemed  to  an- 
ticipate her  wish  ;  and  so  of  all  the  number- 
less little  services  that  can  be  rendered  in  a 
schoolroom. 

Miss  Myrover  was  fond  of  flowers,  and 
liked  to  have  them  about  her.  The  children 
soon  learned  of  this  taste  of  hers,  and  kept 
the  vases  on  her  desk  filled  with  blossoms 
during  their  season.  Sophy  was  perhaps  the 
most  active  in  providing  them.  If  she  could 
not  get  garden  flowers,  she  would  make  ex- 
cursions to  the  woods  in  the  early  morning, 
and  bring  in  great  dew-laden  bunches  of  bay, 
or  jasmine,  or  some  other  fragrant  forest 
flower  which  she  knew  the  teacher  loved. 

"  When  I  die,  Sophy,"  Miss  Myrover  said 
to  the  child  one  day,  "  I  want  to  be  covered 
with  roses.  And  when  they  bury  me,  I  'm 
sure  I  shall  rest  better  if  my  grave  is  banked 
with  flowers,  and  roses  are  planted  at  my 
head  and  at  my  feet." 

Miss  Myrover  was  at  first  amused  at  Sophy's 
devotion ;  but  when  she  grew  more  accus- 
tomed to  it,  she  found  it  rather  to  her  liking. 


THE  BOUQUET  211 

It  had  a  sort  of  flavor  of  the  old  regime,  and 
she  felt,  when  she  bestowed  her  kindly  notice 
upon  her  little  black  attendant,  some  of  the 
feudal  condescension  of  the  mistress  toward 
the  slave.  She  was  kind  to  Sophy,  and  per- 
mitted her  to  play  the  role  she  had  assumed, 
which  caused  sometimes  a  little  jealousy 
among  the  other  girls.  Once  she  gave  Sophy 
a  yellow  ribbon  which  she  took  from  her  own 
hair.  The  child  carried  it  home,  and  cher- 
ished it  as  a  priceless  treasure,  to  be  worn 
only  on  the  greatest  occasions. 

Sophy  had  a  rival  in  her  attachment  to  the 
teacher,  but  the  rivalry  was  altogether  friendly. 
Miss  Myrover  had  a  little  dog,  a  white  spaniel, 
answering  to  the  name  of  Prince.  Prince  was 
a  dog  of  high  degree,  and  would  have  very 
little  to  do  with  the  children  of  the  school ; 
he  made  an  exception,  however,  in  the  case 
of  Sophy,  whose  devotion  for  his  mistress  he 
seemed  to  comprehend.  He  was  a  clever 
dog,  and  could  fetch  and  carry,  sit  up  on  his 
haunches,  extend  his  paw  to  shake  hands,  and 
possessed  several  other  canine  accomplish- 
ments. He  was  very  fond  of  his  mistress, 
and  always,  unless  shut  up  at  home,  accom- 
panied her  to  school,  where  he  spent  most  of 


278  THE  BOUQUET 

his  time  lying  under  the  teacher's  desk,  or,  in 
cold  weather,  by  the  stove,  except  when  he 
would  go  out  now  and  then  and  chase  an 
imaginary  rabbit  round  the  yard,  presumably 
for  exercise. 

At  school  Sophy  and  Prince  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  attentions  to  Miss  Myrover. 
But  when  school  was  over,  Prince  went  away 
with  her,  and  Sophy  stayed  behind  ;  for  Miss 
Myrover  was  white  and  Sophy  was  black, 
which  they  both  understood  perfectly  well. 
Miss  Myrover  taught  the  colored  children, 
but  she  could  not  be  seen  with  them  in  pub- 
lic. If  they  occasionally  met  her  on  the  street, 
they  did  not  expect  her  to  speak  to  them, 
unless  she  happened  to  be  alone  and  no  other 
white  person  was  in  sight.  If  any  of  the 
children  felt  slighted,  she  was  not  aware  of  it, 
for  she  intended  no  slight ;  she  had  not  been 
brought  up  to  speak  to  negroes  on  the  street, 
and  she  could  not  act  differently  from  other 
people.  And  though  she  was  a  woman  of 
sentiment  and  capable  of  deep  feeling,  her 
training  had  been  such  that  she  hardly  ex- 
pected to  find  in  those  of  darker  hue  than 
herself  the  same  susceptibility  —  varying  in 
degree,  perhaps,  but  yet  the  same  in  kind  — 


THE  BOUQUET  279 

that  gave  to  her  own  life  the  alternations  of 
feeling1  that  made  it  most  worth  living. 

Once  Miss  Myrover  wished  to  carry  home  a 
parcel  of  boohs.  She  had  the  bundle  in  her 
hand  when  Sophy  came  up. 

"  Lernme  tote  yo'  bundle  fer  yer,  Miss 
Ma'y  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly.  "  I  'm  gwine  yo' 
way." 

"  Thank  you,  Sophy,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  '11 
be  glad  if  you  will." 

Sophy  followed  the  teacher  at  a  respectful 
distance.  When  they  reached  Miss  Myrover's 
home,  Sophy  carried  the  bundle  to  the  door- 
step, where  Miss  Myrover  took  it  and  thanked 
her. 

Mrs.  Myrover  came  out  on  the  piazza  as 
Sophy  was  moving  away.  She  said,  in  the 
child's  hearing,  and  perhaps  with  the  inten- 
tion that  she  should  hear  :  "  Mary,  I  wish 
you  would  n't  let  those  little  darkeys  follow 
you  to  the  house.  I  don't  want  them  in  the 
yard.  I  should  think  you  'd  have  enough  of 
them  all  day." 

"  Very  well,  mother,"  replied  her  daughter. 
"  I  won't  bring  any  more  of  them.  The  child 
was  only  doing  me  a  favor."  , 

Mrs.  Myrover  was  an  invalid,  and  oppo- 


280  THE  BOUQUET 

sition  or  irritation  of  any  kind  brought  on 
nervous  paroxysms  that  made  her  miser- 
able, and  made  life  a  burden  to  the  rest  of 
the  household,  so  that  Mary  seldom  crossed 
her  whims.  She  did  not  bring  Sophy  to  the 
house  again,  nor  did  Sophy  again  offer  her 
services  as  porter. 

One  day  in  spring  Sophy  brought  her 
teacher  a  bouquet  of  yellow  roses. 

"Dey  come  off'n  my  own  bush,  Miss  Ma'y," 
she  said  proudly,  "  an'  I  did  n'  let  nobody 
e'se  pull  'em,  but  saved  'em  all  fer  you,  'cause 
I  know  you  likes  roses  so  much.  I  'm  gwine 
bring  'em  all  ter  you  as  long  as  dey  las'." 

"  Thank  you,  Sophy,"  said  the  teacher ; 
"  you  are  a  very  good  girl." 

For  another  year  Mary  Myrover  taught  the 
colored  school,  and  did  excellent  service.  The 
children  made  rapid  progress  under  her  tui- 
tion, and  learned  to  love  her  well ;  for  they 
saw  and  appreciated,  as  well  as  children  could, 
her  fidelity  to  a  trust  that  she  might  have 
slighted,  as  some  others  did,  without  much 
fear  of  criticism.  Toward  the  end  of  her 
second  year  she  sickened,  and  after  a  brief 
illness  died. 

Old  Mrs.  Myrover  was  inconsolable.     She 


THE  BOUQUET  281 

ascribed  her  daughter's  death  to  her  labors  as 
teacher  of  negro  children.  Just  how  the 
color  of  the  pupils  had  produced  the  fatal 
effects  she  did  not  stop  to  explain.  But  she 
was  too  old,  and  had  suffered  too  deeply  from 
the  war,  in  body  and  mind  and  estate,  ever 
to  reconcile  herself  to  the  changed  order  of 
things  following  the  return  of  peace  ;  and, 
with  an  unsound  yet  perfectly  explainable 
logic,  she  visited  some  of  her  displeasure 
upon  those  who  had  profited  most,  though 
passively,  by  her  losses. 

"  I  always  feared  something  would  happen 
to  Mary,"  she  said.  "  It  seemed  unnatural 
for  her  to  be  wearing"  herself  out  teaching: 
little  negroes  who  ought  to  have  been  work- 
ing for  her.  But  the  world  has  hardly  been 
a  fit  place  to  live  in  since  the  war,  and  when 
I  follow  her,  as  I  must  before  long,  I  shall 
not  be  sorry  to  go." 

She  gave  strict  orders  that  no  colored 
people  should  be  admitted  to  the  house. 
Some  of  her  friends  heard  of  this,  and  remon- 
strated. They  knew  the  teacher  was  loved  by 
the  pupils,  and  felt  that  sincere  respect  from 
the  humble  would  be  a  worthy  tribute  to  the 
proudest.     But  Mrs.  Myrover  was  obdurate. 


282  THE  BOUQUET 

u  They  had  my  daughter  when  she  was 
alive,"  she  said,  "and  they've  killed  her. 
But  she  's  mine  now,  and  I  won't  have  them 
come  near  her.  I  don't  want  one  of  them  at 
the  funeral  or  anywhere  around." 

For  a  month  before  Miss  Myrover's  death 
Sophy  had  been  watching  her  rosebush  —  the 
one  that  bore  the  yellow  roses  —  for  the  first 
buds  of  spring,  and,  when  these  appeared,  had 
awaited  impatiently  their  gradual  unfolding. 
But  not  until  her  teacher's  death  had  they  be- 
come full-blown  roses.  When  Miss  Myrover 
died,  Sophy  determined  to  pluck  the  roses 
and  lay  them  on  her  coffin.  Perhaps,  she 
thought,  they  might  even  put  them  in  her 
hand  or  on  her  breast.  For  Sophy  remem- 
bered Miss  Myrover's  thanks  and  praise  when 
she  had  brought  her  the  yellow  roses  the 
spring  before. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  set  for  the  fu- 
neral, Sophy  washed  her  face  until  it  shone, 
combed  and  brushed  her  hair  with  painful 
conscientiousness,  put  on  her  best  frock, 
plucked  her  yellow  roses,  and,  tying  them 
with  the  treasured  ribbon  her  teacher  had 
given  her,  set  out  for  Miss  Myrover's  home. 

She  went   round   to  the  side  gate  —  the 


THE  BOUQUET  283 

house  stood  on  a  corner  —  and  stole  up  the 
path  to  the  kitchen.  A  colored  woman,  whom 
she  did  not  know,  came  to  the  door. 

"  Wat  yer  want,  chile  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Kin  I  see  Miss  Ma'y  ? "  asked  Sophy 
timidly. 

"  I  don't  know,  honey.  Ole  Miss  Myrover 
say  she  don't  want  no  cullud  folks  roun'  de 
house  endyoin'  dis  fun'al.  I  '11  look  an'  see 
if  she  's  roun'  de  front  room,  whar  de  co'pse 
is.  You  sed  down  heah  an'  keep  still,  an'  ef 
she  's  upstairs  maybe  I  kin  git  yer  in  dere  a 
minute.  Ef  I  can't,  I  kin  put  yo'  bokay 
'mongs'  de  res',  whar  she  won't  know  nuthin' 
erbout  it." 

A  moment  after  she  had  gone,  there  was  a 
step  in  the  hall,  and  old  Mrs.  Myrover  came 
into  the  kitchen. 

"  Dinah ! "  she  said  in  a  peevish  tone ; 
"Dinah!" 

Receiving  no  answer,  Mrs.  Myrover  peered 
around  the  kitchen,  and  caught  sight  of 
Sophy. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ? "  she  de- 
manded. 

"I  —  I  'm-m  waitin'  ter  see  de  cook, 
ma'am,"  stammered  Sophy. 


284  THE  BOUQUET 

"  The  cook  is  n't  here  now.  I  don't  know 
where  she  is.  Besides,  my  daughter  is  to 
be  buried  to-day,  and  I  won't  have  any  one 
visiting  the  servants  until  the  funeral  is  over. 
Come  back  some  other  day,  or  see  the  cook 
at  her  own  home  in  the  evening." 

She  stood  waiting  for  the  child  to  go,  and 
under  the  keen  glance  of  her  eyes  Sophy, 
feeling  as  though  she  had  been  caught  in 
some  disgraceful  act,  hurried  down  the  walk 
and  out  of  the  gate,  with  her  bouquet  in  her 
hand. 

"  Dinah,"  said  Mrs.  Myrover,  when  the 
cook  came  back,  "  I  don't  want  any  strange 
people  admitted  here  to-day.  The  house  will 
be  full  of  our  friends,  and  we  have  no  room 
for  others." 

"  Yas  'm,"  said  the  cook.  She  understood 
perfectly  what  her  mistress  meant ;  and  what 
the  cook  thought  about  her  mistress  was  a 
matter  of  no  consequence. 

The  funeral  services  were  held  at  St.  Paul's 
Episcopal  Church,  where  the  Myrovers  had 
always  worshiped.  Quite  a  number  of  Miss 
Myrover' s  pu23ils  went  to  the  church  to  attend 
the  services.  The  building  was  not  a  large  one. 
There  was  a  small  gallery  at  the  rear,  to  which 


THE  BOUQUET  285 

colored  people  were  admitted,  if  they  chose  to 
come,  at  ordinary  services ;  and  those  who 
wished  to  be  present  at  the  funeral  supposed 
that  the  usual  custom  would  prevail.  They 
were  therefore  surprised,  when  they  went  to 
the  side  entrance,  by  which  colored  people 
gained  access  to  the  gallery  stairs,  to  be  met 
by  an  usher  who  barred  their  passage. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  had 
orders  to  admit  no  one  until  the  friends  of 
the  family  have  all  been  seated.  If  you  wish 
to  wait  until  the  white  people  have  all  gone 
in,  and  there  's  any  room  left,  you  may  be 
able  to  get  into  the  back  part  of  the  gallery. 
Of  course  I  can't  tell  yet  whether  there  '11  be 
any  room  or  not." 

Now  the  statement  of  the  usher  was  a  very 
reasonable  one ;  but,  strange  to  say,  none  of 
the  colored  people  chose  to  remain  except 
Sophy.  She  still  hoped  to  use  her  floral 
offering  for  its  destined  end,  in  some  way, 
though  she  did  not  know  just  how.  She 
waited  in  the  yard  until  the  church  was  filled 
with  white  people,  and  a  number  who  could 
not  gain  admittance  were  standing  about  the 
doors.  Then  she  went  round  to  the  side  of 
the  church,  and,  depositing  her  bouquet  care- 


286  THE  BOUQUET 

fully  on  an  old  mossy  gravestone,  climbed  up 
on  the  projecting  sill  of  a  window  near  the 
chancel.  The  window  was  of  stained  glass, 
of  somewhat  ancient  make.  The  church  was 
old,  had  indeed  been  built  in  colonial  times, 
and  the  stained  glass  had  been  brought  from 
England.  The  design  of  the  window  showed 
Jesus  blessing  little  children.  Time  had  dealt 
gently  with  the  window,  but  just  at  the  feet 
of  the  figure  of  Jesus  a  small  triangular  piece 
of  glass  had  been  broken  out.  To  this  aper- 
ture Sophy  applied  her  eyes,  and  through  it 
saw  and  heard  what  she  could  of  the  services 
within. 

Before  the  chancel,  on  trestles  draped  in 
black,  stood  the  sombre  casket  in  which  lay 
all  that  was  mortal  of  her  dear  teacher.  The 
top  of  the  casket  was  covered  with  flowers ; 
and  lying  stretched  out  underneath  it  she  saw 
Miss  Myrover's  little  white  dog,  Prince.  He 
had  followed  the  body  to  the  church,  and, 
slipping  in  unnoticed  among  the  mourners, 
had  taken  his  place,  from  which  no  one  had 
the  heart  to  remove  him. 

The  white-robed  rector  read  the  solemn 
service  for  the  dead,  and  then  delivered  a 
brief  address,   in  which  he   dwelt   upon  the 


THE  BOUQUET  287 

uncertainty  of  life,  and,  to  the  believer,  the 
certain  blessedness  of  eternity.  He  spoke 
of  Miss  Myrover's  kindly  spirit,  and,  as  an 
illustration  of  her  love  and  self-sacrifice  for 
others,  referred  to  her  labors  as  a  teacher  of 
the  poor  ignorant  negroes  who  had  been  placed 
in  their  midst  by  an  all-wise  Providence,  and 
whom  it  was  their  duty  to  guide  and  direct 
in  the  station  in  which  God  had  put  them. 
Then  the  organ  pealed,  a  prayer  was  said, 
and  the  long  cortege  moved  from  the  church 
to  the  cemetery,  about  half  a  mile  away, 
where  the  body  was  to  be  interred. 

When  the  services  were  over,  Sophy  sprang 
clown  from  her  perch,  and,  taking  her  flowers, 
followed  the  procession.  She  did  not  walk 
with  the  rest,  but  at  a  proper  and  respectful 
distance  from  the  last  mourner.  No  one  no- 
ticed the  little  black  girl  with  the  bunch  of 
yellow  flowers,  or  thought  of  her  as  inter- 
ested in  the  funeral. 

The  cortege  reached  the  cemetery  and  filed 
slowly  through  the  gate ;  but  Sophy  stood 
outside,  looking  at  a  small  sign  in  white 
letters  on  a  black  background  :  — 

"  Notice.  This  cemetery  is  for  white  peo- 
ple only.     Others  please  keep  out." 


288  THE  BOUQUET 

Sophy,  thanks  to  Miss  Myrover's  pains- 
taking instruction,  could  read  this  sign  very 
distinctly.  In  fact,  she  had  often  read  it 
before.  For  Sophy  was  a  child  who  loved 
beauty,  in  a  blind,  groping  sort  of  way,  and 
had  sometimes  stood  by  the  fence  of  the 
cemetery  and  looked  through  at  the  green 
mounds  and  shaded  walks  and  blooming 
flowers  within,  and  wished  that  she  might 
walk  among  them.  She  knew,  too,  that  the 
little  sign  on  the  gate,  though  so  courteously 
worded,  was  no  mere  formality;  for  she  had 
heard  how  a  colored  man,  who  had  wandered 
into  the  cemetery  on  a  hot  night  and  fallen 
asleep  on  the  flat  top  of  a  tomb,  had  been 
arrested  as  a  vagrant  and  fined  five  dollars, 
which  he  had  worked  out  on  the  streets,  with 
a  ball-and-chain  attachment,  at  twenty-five 
cents  a  day.  Since  that  time  the  cemetery 
gate  had  been  locked  at  night. 

So  Sophy  stayed  outside,  and  looked 
through  the  fence.  Her  poor  bouquet  had 
begun  to  droop  by  this  time,  and  the  yellow 
ribbon  had  lost  some  of  its  freshness.  Sophy 
could  see  the  rector  standing  by  the  grave, 
the  mourners  gathered  round ;  she  could 
faintly    distinguish    the    solemn  words  with 


FOR  WHITE  PEOPLE  ONLY.    OTHERS  PLEASE  KEEP  OUT" 


THE  BOUQUET  289 

which  ashes  were  committed  to  ashes,  and 
dust  to  dust.  She  heard  the  hollow  thud  of 
the  earth  falling  on  the  coffin  ;  and  she  leaned 
against  the  iron  fence,  sobbing  softly,  until 
the  grave  was  filled  and  rounded  off,  and  the 
wreaths  and  other  floral  pieces  were  disposed 
upon  it.  When  the  mourners  began  to  move 
toward  the  gate,  Sophy  walked  slowly  down 
the  street,  in  a  direction  opposite  to  that 
taken  by  most  of  the  people  who  came  out. 

When  they  had  all  gone  away,  and  the 
sexton  had  come  out  and  locked  the  gate 
behind  him,  Sophy  crept  back.  Her  roses 
were  faded  now,  and  from  some  of  them  the 
petals  had  fallen.  She  stood  there  irresolute, 
loath  to  leave  with  her  heart's  desire  unsatis- 
fied, when,  as  her  eyes  sought  again  the 
teacher's  last  resting-place,  she  saw  lying  be- 
side the  new-made  grave  what  looked  like 
a  small  bundle  of  white  wool.  Sophy's  eyes 
lighted  up  with  a  sudden  glow. 

"  Prince  !     Here,  Prince  !  "  she  called. 

The  little  dog  rose,  and  trotted  down  to 
the  gate.  Sophy  pushed  the  poor  bouquet 
between  the  iron  bars.  "  Take  that  ter  Miss 
Ma'y,  Prince,"  she  said,  "that's  a  good 
doggie." 


290  THE  BOUQUET 

The  dog  wagged  his  tail  intelligently,  took 
the  bouquet  carefully  in  his  mouth,  carried  it 
to  his  mistress's  grave,  and  laid  it  among  the 
other  flowers.  The  bunch  of  roses  was  so 
small  that  from  where  she  stood  Sophy  could 
see  only  a  dash  of  yellow  against  the  white 
background  of  the  mass  of  flowers. 

When  Prince  had  performed  his  mission 
he  turned  his  eyes  toward  Sophy  inquiringly, 
and  when  she  gave  him  a  nod  of  approval  lay 
down  and  resumed  his  watch  by  the  grave- 
side. Sophy  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  a 
feeling  very  much  like  envy,  and  then  turned 
and  moved  slowly  away. 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 


Within  a  low  clapboarded  hut,  with  an 
open  front,  a  forge  was  glowing.  In  front 
a  blacksmith  was  shoeing  a  horse,  a  sleek, 
well-kept  animal  with  the  signs  of  good  blood 
and  breeding.  A  young  mulatto  stood  by 
and  handed  the  blacksmith  such  tools  as  he 
needed  from  time  to  time.  A  group  of 
negroes  were  sitting  around,  some  in  the 
shadow  of  the  shop,  one  in  the  full  glare  of 
the  sunlight.  A  gentleman  was  seated  in  a 
buggy  a  few  yards  away,  in  the  shade  of 
a  spreading  elm.  The  horse  had  loosened  a 
shoe,  and  Colonel  Thornton,  who  was  a  lover 
of  fine  horseflesh,  and  careful  of  it,  had 
stopped  at  Ben  Davis's  blacksmith  shop,  as 
soon  as  he  discovered  the  loose  shoe,  to  have 
it  fastened  on. 

"  All  right,  Kunnel,"  the  blacksmith  called 
out.  "  Tom,"  he  said,  addressing  the  young 
man,  "  he'p  me  hitch  up." 


292  THE   WEB    OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

Colonel  Thornton  alighted  from  the  buggy, 
looked  at  the  shoe,  signified  his  approval  of 
the  job,  and  stood  looking  on  while  the  black- 
smith and  his  assistant  harnessed  the  horse  to 
the  buggy. 

"  Dat  's  a  mighty  fine  whip  yer  got  dere, 
Kunnel,"  said  Ben,  while  the  young  man  was 
tightening  the  straps  of  the  harness  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  horse.  "  I  wush  I  had 
one  like  it.     Where  kin  yer  git  dem  whips  ?  " 

"  My  brother  brought  me  this  from  New 
York,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  You  can't  buy 
them  down  here." 

The  whip  in  question  was  a  handsome  one. 
The  handle  was  wrapped  with  interlacing 
threads  of  variegated  colors,  forming  an  elab- 
orate pattern,  the  lash  being  dark  green.  An 
octagonal  ornament  of  glass  was  set  in  the 
end  of  the  handle.  "  It  cert'n'y  is  fine,"  said 
Ben  ;  "  I  wish  I  had  one  like  it."  He  looked 
at  the  whip  longingly  as  Colonel  Thornton 
drove  away. 

"  'Pears  ter  me  Ben  gittin'  mighty  blooded," 
said  one  of  the  bystanders,  "  drivin'  a  hoss  an' 
buggy,  an'  wantin'  a  whip  like  Colonel  Thorn- 
ton's." 

"  What 's  de  reason  I  can't  hab  a  hoss  an' 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  293 

buggy  an'  a  whip  like  Kunnel  Tho'nton's,  ef 
I  pay  fer  'em?"  asked  Ben.  "  We  colored 
folks  never  had  no  chance  ter  git  nothin' 
befo'  de  wah,  but  ef  eve'y  nigger  in  dis  town 
had  a  tuck  keer  er  his  money  sence  de  wah, 
like  I  has,  an'  bought  as  much  Ian'  as  I  has,  de 
niggers  might  'a'  got  half  de  Ian'  by  dis  time," 
he  went  on,  giving  a  finishing  blow  to  a  horse- 
shoe, and  throwing  it  on  the  ground  to  cool. 

Carried  away  by  his  own  eloquence,  he  did 
not  notice  the  approach  of  two  white  men 
who  came  up  the  street  from  behind  him. 

"  An'  ef  you  niggers,"  he  continued,  raking 
the  coals  together  over  a  fresh  bar  of  iron, 
"  would  stop  wastin'  yo'  money  on  'scursions 
to  put  money  in  w'ite  folks'  pockets,  an'  stop 
buildin'  fine  chu'ches,  an'  bun"  houses  fer 
yo'se'ves,  you  'd  git  along  much  faster." 

"  You  're  talkin'  sense,  Ben,"  said  one  of 
the  white  men.  "  Yo'r  people  will  never  be 
respected  till  they  've  got  property." 

The  conversation  took  another  turn.  The 
white  men  transacted  their  business  and  went 
away.  The  whistle  of  a  neighboring  steam 
sawmill  blew  a  raucous  blast  for  the  hour  of 
noon,  and  the  loafers  shuffled  away  in  differ- 
ent directions. 


294  THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"You  kin  go  ter  dinner,  Tom,"  said  the 
blacksmith.  "  An'  stop  at  de  gate  w'en  yer 
go  by  my  house,  and  tell  Nancy  I  '11  be  dere 
in  'bout  twenty  minutes.  I  got  ter  finish  dis 
yer  plough  p'int  fus'." 

The  young  man  walked  away.  One  would 
have  supposed,  from  the  rapidity  with  which 
he  walked,  that  he  was  very  hungry.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  blacksmith 
dropped  his  hammer,  pulled  off  his  leather 
apron,  shut  the  front  door  of  the  shop,  and 
went  home  to  dinner.  He  came  into  the 
house  out  of  the  fervent  heat,  and,  throwing 
off  his  straw  hat,  wiped  his  brow  vigorously 
with  a  red  cotton  handkerchief. 

"  Dem  collards  smells  good,"  he  said, 
sniffing  the  odor  that  came  in  through  the 
kitchen  door,  as  his  good-looking  yellow  wife 
opened  it  to  enter  the  room  where  he  was. 
"  I  've  got  a  monst'us  good  appetite  ter-day. 
I  feels  good,  too.  I  paid  Majah  Ransom  de 
intrus'  on  de  mortgage  dis  niawnin'  an'  a 
hund'ed  dollahs  besides,  an'  I  spec's  ter  hab 
de  balance  ready  by  de  fust  of  nex'  Jiniwary ; 
an'  den  we  won't  owe  nobody  a  cent.  I  tell 
yer  dere  am'  nothin'  like  propputy  ter  make 
a   pusson    feel   like  a  man.     But  w'at  's  de 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  295 

matter  wid  yer,  Nancy  ?  Is  sump'n'  skeered 
yer  ? 

The  woman  did  seem  excited  and  ill  at 
ease.  There  was  a  heaving  of  the  full  bust, 
a  quickened  breathing,  that  betokened  sup- 
pressed excitement. 

"I —  I  —  jes'  seen  a  rattlesnake  out  in  de 
gyahden,"  she  stammered. 

The  blacksmith  ran  to  the  door.  "  Which 
way  ?     Whar  wuz  he  ?  "  he  cried. 

He  heard  a  rustling  in  the  bushes  at  one 
side  of  the  garden,  and  the  sound  of  a  break- 
ing twig,  and,  seizing  a  hoe  which  stood  by 
the  door,  he  sprang  toward  the  point  from 
which  the  sound  came. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  woman  hurriedly,  "  it 
wuz  over  here,"  and  she  directed  her  husband's 
attention  to  the  other  side  of  the  garden. 

The  blacksmith,  with  the  uplifted  hoe,  its 
sharp  blade  gleaming  in  the  sunlight,  peered 
cautiously  among  the  collards  and  tomato 
plants,  listening  all  the  while  for  the  ominous 
rattle,  but  found  nothing. 

"  I  reckon  he  's  got  away,"  he  said,  as  he 
set  the  hoe  up  again  by  the  door.  "  Whar  's 
de  chillen  ?  "  he  asked  with  some  anxiety. 
"  Is  dey  play  in'  in  de  woods  ?  " 


296  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"  No,"  answered  his  wife,  "  dey  've  gone 
ter  de  spring." 

The  spring  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
garden  from  that  on  which  the  snake  was 
said  to  have  been  seen,  so  the  blacksmith  sat 
down  and  fanned  himself  with  a  palm-leaf 
fan  until  the  dinner  was  served. 

"  Yer  ain't  quite  on  time  ter-day,  Nancy," 
he  said,  glancing  up  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantel,  after  the  edge  of  his  appetite  had 
been  taken  off.  "  Got  ter  make  time  ef  yer 
wanter  make  money.  Did  n't  Tom  tell  yer 
I  'd  be  heah  in  twenty  minutes  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  I  seen  him  goin'  pas' ; 
he  did  n'  say  nothin'." 

"  I  dunno  w'at  's  de  matter  wid  dat  boy," 
mused  the  blacksmith  over  his  apple  dump- 
ling. "  He 's  gittin'  mighty  keerless  heah 
lately  ;  mus'  hab  sump'n'  on  'is  min',  —  some 
gal,  I  reckon." 

The  children  had  come  in  while  he  was 
speaking,  —  a  slender,  shapely  boy,  yellow  like 
his  mother,  a  girl  several  years  younger,  dark 
like  her  father  :  both  bright-looking  children 
and  neatly  dressed. 

"  I  seen  cousin  Tom  down  by  de  spring," 
said  the  little  girl,  as  she  lifted  off  the  pail 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  297 

of  water  that  had  been  balanced  on  her  head. 
"  He  come  out  er  de  woods  jest  ez  we  wuz 
fillin'  our  buckets." 

"  Yas,"  insisted  the  blacksmith,  "  he  's  got 
some  gal  on  his  min'." 

II 

The  case  of  the  State  of  North  Carolina  vs. 
Ben  Davis  was  called.  The  accused  was  led 
into  court,  and  took  his  seat  in  the  prisoner's 
dock. 

"  Prisoner  at  the  bar,  stand  up." 

The  prisoner,  pale  and  anxious,  stood  up. 
The  clerk  read  the  indictment,  in  which  it  was 
charged  that  the  defendant  by  force  and  arms 
had  entered  the  barn  of  one  G.  W.  Thornton, 
and  feloniously  taken  therefrom  one  whip,  of 
the  value  of  fifteen  dollars. 

"  Are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?  "  asked  the 
judge. 

"  Not  guilty,  yo'  Honah  ;  not  guilty,  Jedge. 
I  never  tuck  de  whip." 

The  State's  attorney  opened  the  case.  He 
was  young  and  zealous.  Recently  elected  to 
the  office,  this  was  his  first  batch  of  cases,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  make  as  good  a  record  as 


298  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

possible.  He  had  no  doubt  of  the  prisoner's 
guilt.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  petty 
thieving  in  the  county,  and  several  gentlemen 
had  suggested  to  him  the  necessity  for  greater 
severity  in  punishing  it.  The  jury  were  all 
white  men.  The  prosecuting  attorney  stated 
the  case. 

"  We  expect  to  show,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  the  facts  set  out  in  the  indictment,  — 
not  altogether  by  direct  proof,  but  by  a  chain 
of  circumstantial  evidence  which  is  stronger 
even  than  the  testimony  of  eyewitnesses.  Men 
might  lie,  but  circumstances  cannot.  We  ex- 
pect to  show  that  the  defendant  is  a  man  of 
dangerous  character,  a  surly,  impudent  fellow ; 
a  man  whose  views  of  property  are  prejudicial 
to  the  welfare  of  society,  and  who  has  been 
heard  to  assert  that  half  the  property  which 
is  owned  in  this  county  has  been  stolen,  and 
that,  if  justice  were  done,  the  white  people 
ought  to  divide  up  the  land  with  the  negroes; 
in  other  words,  a  negro  nihilist,  a  communist, 
a  secret  devotee  of  Tom  Paine  and  Voltaire,  a 
pupil  of  the  anarchist  propaganda,  which,  if 
not  checked  by  the  stern  hand  of  the  law,  will 
fasten  its  insidious  fangs  on  our  social  system, 
and  drag  it  down  to  ruin." 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  299 

"  We  object,  may  it  please  your  Honor," 
said  the  defendant's  attorney.  "  The  pro- 
secutor should  defer  his  argument  until  the 
testimony  is  in." 

"  Confine  yourself  to  the  facts,  Major," 
said  the  court  mildly. 

The  prisoner  sat  with  half-open  mouth, 
overwhelmed  by  this  flood  of  eloquence.  He 
had  never  heard  of  Tom  Paine  or  Voltaire. 
He  had  no  conception  of  what  a  nihilist  or 
an  anarchist  might  be,  and  could  not  have 
told  the  difference  between  a  propaganda  and 
a  potato. 

"  We  expect  to  show,  may  it  please  the 
court,  that  the  prisoner  had  been  employed 
by  Colonel  Thornton  to  shoe  a  horse  ;  that 
the  horse  was  taken  to  the  prisoner's  black- 
smith shop  by  a  servant  of  Colonel  Thorn- 
ton's ;  that,  this  servant  expressing  a  desire 
to  go  somewhere  on  an  errand  before  the 
horse  had  been  shod,  the  prisoner  volun- 
teered to  return  the  horse  to  Colonel  Thorn- 
ton's stable  ;  that  he  did  so,  and  the  following 
morning  the  whip  in  question  was  missing  ; 
that,  from  circumstances,  suspicion  naturally 
fell  upon  the  prisoner,  and  a  search  was  made 
of  his   shop,  where  the  whip  was  found  se- 


300  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

creted ;  that  the  prisoner  denied  that  the 
whip  was  there,  but  when  confronted  with 
the  evidence  of  his  crime,  showed  by  his  con- 
fusion that  he  was  guilty  beyond  a  perad- 
venture." 

The  prisoner  looked  more  anxious ;  so 
much  eloquence  could  not  but  be  effective 
with  the  jury. 

The  attorney  for  the  defendant  answered 
briefly,  denying  the  defendant's  guilt,  dwell- 
ing upon  his  previous  good  character  for 
honesty,  and  begging  the  jury  not  to  pre- 
judge the  case,  but  to  remember  that  the  law 
is  merciful,  and  that  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
should  be  given  to  the  prisoner. 

The  prisoner  glanced  nervously  at  the  jury. 
There  was  nothing  in  their  faces  to  indicate 
the  effect  upon  them  of  the  opening  state- 
ments. It  seemed  to  the  disinterested  listeners 
as  if  the  defendant's  attorney  had  little  con- 
fidence in  his  client's  cause. 

Colonel  Thornton  took  the  stand  and  testi- 
fied to  his  ownership  of  the  whip,  the  place 
where  it  was  kept,  its  value,  and  the  fact  that 
it  had  disappeared.  The  whip  was  produced 
in  court  and  identified  by  the  witness.  He 
also  testified  to  the  conversation  at  the  black- 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  801 

smith  shop  in  the  course  of  which  the  pris- 
oner had  expressed  a  desire  to  possess  a  sim- 
ilar whip.  The  cross-examination  was  brief, 
and  no  attempt  was  made  to  shake  the  Colo- 
nel's testimony. 

The  next  witness  was  the  constable  who  had 
gone  with  a  warrant  to  search  Ben's  shop. 
He  testified  to  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  whip  was  found. 

"  He  wuz  brazen  as  a  mule  at  fust,  an* 
wanted  ter  git  mad  about  it.  But  when  we 
begun  ter  turn  over  that  pile  er  truck  in  the 
cawner,  he  kinder  begun  ter  trimble ;  when 
the  whip-handle  stuck  out,  his  eyes  commenced 
ter  grow  big,  an'  when  we  hauled  the  whip 
out  he  turned  pale  ez  ashes,  an'  begun  to 
swear  he  did  n'  take  the  whip  an'  did  n'  know 
how  it  got  thar." 

"  You  may  cross-examine,"  said  the  prose- 
cuting attorney  triumphantly. 

The  prisoner  felt  the  weight  of  the  testi- 
mony, and  glanced  furtively  at  the  jury,  and 
then  appealingly  at  his  lawyer. 

"  You  say  that  Ben  denied  that  he  had 
stolen  the  whip,"  said  the  prisoner's  attorney, 
on  cross-examination.  "  Did  it  not  occur  to 
you  that  what  you  took  for  brazen  impudence 


302  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

might  have  been  but  the  evidence  of  con- 
scions  innocence  ?  " 

The  witness  grinned  incredulously,  reveal- 
ing thereby  a  few  blackened  fragments  of 
teeth. 

"  I  've  tuck  up  more  'n  a  hundred  niggers 
fer  stealin',  Kurnel,  an'  I  never  seed  one  yit 
that  did  n'  'ny  it  ter  the  las'." 

"  Answer  my  question.  Might  not  the 
witness's  indignation  have  been  a  manifesta- 
tion  of  conscious  innocence  ?     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  mought,  an'  the  moon  mought 
fall  —  but  it  don't." 

Further  cross-examination  did  not  weaken 
the  witness's  testimony,  which  was  very  dam- 
aging, and  every  one  in  the  court  room  felt 
instinctively  that  a  strong  defense  would  be 
required  to  break  down  the  State's  case. 

"  The  State  rests,"  said  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  with  a  ring  in  his  voice  which  spoke 
of  certain  victory. 

There  was  a  temporary  lull  in  the  proceed- 
ings, during  which  a  bailiff  passed  a  pitcher 
of  water  and  a  glass  along  the  line  of  jury- 
men.    The  defense  was  then  begun. 

The  law  in  its  wisdom  did  not  permit  the 
defendant  to  testify  in  his  own  behalf.    There 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  303 

were  no  witnesses  to  the  facts,  but  several 
were  called  to  testify  to  Ben's  good  character. 
The  colored  witnesses  made  him  out  pos- 
sessed of  all  the  virtues.  One  or  two  white 
men  testified  that  they  had  never  known  any- 
thing against  his  reputation  for  honesty. 

The  defendant  rested  his  case,  and  the 
State  called  its  witnesses  in  rebuttal.  They 
were  entirely  on  the  point  of  character.  One 
testified  that  he  had  heard  the  prisoner  say 
that,  if  the  negroes  had  their  rights,  they 
would  own  at  least  half  the  property.  An- 
other testified  that  he  had  heard  the  defend- 
ant say  that  the  negroes  spent  too  much 
money  on  churches,  and  that  they  cared  a 
good  deal  more  for  God  than  God  had  ever 
seemed  to  care  for  them. 

Ben  Davis  listened  to  this  testimony  with 
half-open  mouth  and  staring  eyes.  Now  and 
then  he  would  lean  forward  and  speak  per- 
haps a  word,  when  his  attorney  would  shake 
a  warning  finger  at  him,  and  he  would  fall 
back  helplessly,  as  if  abandoning  himself  to 
fate  ;  but  for  a  moment  only,  when  he  would 
resume  his  puzzled  look. 

The  arguments  followed.  The  prosecuting 
attorney  briefly  summed  up  the  evidence,  and 


304  TIIE    WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

characterized  it  as  almost  a  mathematical 
proof  of  the  prisoner's  guilt.  He  reserved 
his  eloquence  for  the  closing-  argument. 

The  defendant's  attorney  had  a  headache, 
and  secretly  believed  his  client  guilty.  His 
address  sounded  more  like  an  appeal  for 
mercy  than  a  demand  for  justice.  Then  the 
State's  attorney  delivered  the  maiden  argument 
of  his  office,  the  speech  that  made  his  repu- 
tation as  an  orator,  and  opened  up  to  him  a 
successful  political  career. 

The  judge's  charge  to  the  jury  was  a  plain, 
simple  statement  of  the  law  as  applied  to 
circumstantial  evidence,  and  the  mere  state- 
ment of  the  law  foreshadowed  the  verdict. 

The  eyes  of  the  prisoner  were  glued  to  the 
jury-box,  and  he  looked  more  and  more  like 
a  hunted  animal.  In  the  rear  of  the  crowd 
of  blacks  who  filled  the  back  part  of  the  room, 
partly  concealed  by  the  projecting  angle  of 
the  fireplace,  stood  Tom,  the  blacksmith's 
assistant.  If  the  face  is  the  mirror  of  the 
soul,  then  this  man's  soul,  taken  off  its  guard 
in  this  moment  of  excitement,  was  full  of  lust 
and  envy  and  all  evil  passions. 

The  jury  filed  out  of  their  box,  and  into 
the    jury    room    behind    the    judge's    stand. 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  305 

There  was  a  moment  of  relaxation  in  the 
court  room.  The  lawyers  fell  into  conversa- 
tion across  the  table.  The  judge  beckoned  to 
Colonel  Thornton,  who  stepped  forward,  and 
they  conversed  together  a  few  moments.  The 
prisoner  was  all  eyes  and  ears  in  this  moment 
of  waiting,  and  from  an  involuntary  gesture 
on  the  part  of  the  judge  he  divined  that  they 
were  speaking  of  him.  It  is  a  pity  he  could 
not  hear  what  was  said. 

"How  do  you  feel  about  the  case,  Colonel?  " 
asked  the  judge. 

"Let  him  off  easy,"  replied  Colonel  Thorn- 
ton. "  He  's  the  best  blacksmith  in  the 
county." 

The  business  of  the  court  seemed  to  have 
halted  by  tacit  consent,  in  anticipation  of  a 
quick  verdict.  The  suspense  did  not  last 
long.  Scarcely  ten  minutes  had  elapsed 
when  there  was  a  rap  on  the  door,  the  officer 
opened  it,  and  the  jury  came  out. 

The  prisoner,  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  sought 
their  faces,  but  met  no  reassuring  glance ; 
they  were  all  looking  away  from  him. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you  agreed 
upon  a  verdict  ?  " 

"  We  have,"  responded  the  foreman.     The 


306  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

clerk  of  the  court  stepped  forward  and  took 
the  fateful  slip  from  the  foreman's  hand. 

The  clerk  read  the  verdict :  "  We,  the 
jury  impaneled  and  sworn  to  try  the  issues 
in  this  cause,  do  find  the  prisoner  guilty  as 
charged  in  the  indictment." 

There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  silence. 
Then  a  wild  burst  of  grief  from  the  prisoner's 
wife,  to  which  his  two  children,  not  under- 
standing it  all,  but  vaguely  conscious  of  some 
calamity,  added  their  voices  in  two  long,  dis- 
cordant wails,  which  would  have  been  ludi- 
crous had  they  not  been  heart-rending. 

The  face  of  the  young  man  in  the  back  of 
the  room  expressed  relief  and  badly  concealed 
satisfaction.  The  prisoner  fell  back  upon  the 
seat  from  which  he  had  half  risen  in  his  anxi- 
ety, and  his  dark  face  assumed  an  ashen 
hue.  What  he  thought  could  only  be  sur- 
mised. Perhaps,  knowing  his  innocence,  he 
had  not  believed  conviction  possible ;  perhaps, 
conscious  of  guilt,  he  dreaded  the  punishment, 
the  extent  of  which  was  optional  witli  the 
judge,  within  very  wide  limits.  Only  one  other 
person  present  knew  whether  or  not  he  was 
guilty,  and  that  other  had  slunk  furtively 
from  the  court  room. 


TEE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  307 

Some  of  the  spectators  wondered  why  there 
should  be  so  much  ado  about  convicting  a 
negro  of  stealing  a  buggy-whip.  They  had 
forgotten  their  own  interest  of  the  moment 
before.  They  did  not  realize  out  of  what 
trifles  grow  the  tragedies  of  life. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  the 
hour  for  adjournment,  when  the  verdict  was 
returned.     The  judge  nodded  to  the  bailiff. 

"  Oyez,  oyez!  this  court  is  now  adjourned 
until  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,"  cried 
the  bailiff  in  a  singsong  voice.  The  judge 
left  the  bench,  the  jury  filed  out  of  the  box, 
and  a  buzz  of  conversation  filled  the  court 
room. 

"  Brace  up,  Ben,  brace  up,  my  boy,"  said 
the  defendant's  lawyer,  half  apologetically. 
"  I  did  what  I  could  for  you,  but  you  can 
never  tell  what  a  jury  will  do.  You  won't  be 
sentenced  till  to-morrow  morning.  In  the 
meantime  I  '11  speak  to  the  judge  and  try  to 
get  him  to  be  easy  with  you.  He  may  let 
you  off  with  a  light  fine." 

The  negro  pulled  himself  together,  and  by 
an  effort  listened. 

"  Thanky,  Majah,"  was  all  he  said.  He 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  far  away. 


308  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

He  barely  spoke  to  his  wife  when  she  fran- 
tically threw  herself  on  him,  and  clung  to  his 
neck,  as  he  passed  through  the  side  room  on 
his  way  to  jail.  He  kissed  his  children  me- 
chanically, and  did  not  reply  to  the  soothing 
remarks  made  by  the  jailer. 


Ill 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  excitement  in 
town  the  next  morning.  Two  white  men 
stood  by  the  post  office  talking. 

"  Did  yer  hear  the  news  ?  " 

"  No,  what  wuz  it  ?  " 

"  Ben  Davis  tried  ter  break  jail  las'  night." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  What  a  fool !  He 
ain't  be'n  sentenced  yit." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  other,  "  I  've  knowed 
Ben  a  long  time,  an'  he  wuz  a  right  good 
nigger.  I  kinder  found  it  hard  ter  b'lieve  he 
did  steal  that  whip.  But  what 's  a  man's  feel- 
in's  ag'in'  the  proof  ?  " 

They  spoke  on  awhile,  using  the  past  tense 
as  if  they  were  speaking  of  a  dead  man. 

"  Ef  I  know  Jedge  Hart,  Ben  '11  wish  he 
had  slep'  las'  night,  'stidder  tryin'  ter  break 
out'n  jail." 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  309 

At  ten  o'clock  the  prisoner  was  brought  into 
court.  He  walked  with  shambling  gait,  bent 
at  the  shoulders,  hopelessly,  with  downcast 
eyes,  and  took  his  seat  with  several  other 
.v  prisoners  who  had  been  brought  in  for  sen- 
tence. His  wife,  accompanied  by  the  children, 
waited  behind  him,  and  a  number  of  his 
friends  were  gathered  in  the  court  room. 

The  first  prisoner  sentenced  was  a  young 
white  man,  convicted  several  days  before  of 
manslaughter.  The  deed  was  done  in  the 
heat  of  passion,  under  circumstances  of  great 
provocation,  during  a  quarrel  about  a  woman. 
The  prisoner  was  admonished  of  the  sanctity 
of  human  life,  and  sentenced  to  one  year  in 
the  penitentiary. 

The  next  case  was  that  of  a  young  clerk, 
eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age,  who  had 
committed  a  forgery  in  order  to  procure  the 
means  to  buy  lottery  tickets.  He  was  well 
connected,  and  the  case  would  not  have  been 
prosecuted  if  the  judge  had  not  refused  to 
allow  it  to  be  nolled,  and,  once  brought 
to  trial,  a  conviction  could  not  have  been 
avoided. 

"  You  are  a  young  man,"  said  the  judge 
gravely,  yet  not  unkindly,  "  and  your  life  is 


310  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

yet  before  you.  I  regret  that  you  should 
have  been  led  into  evil  courses  by  the  lust  for 
speculation,  so  dangerous  in  its  tendencies,  so 
fruitful  of  crime  and  misery.  I  am  led  to  be- 
lieve that  you  are  sincerely  penitent,  and  that, 
after  such  punishment  as  the  law  cannot  re- 
mit without  bringing  itself  into  contempt, 
you  will  see  the  error  of  your  ways  and  follow 
the  strict  path  of  rectitude.  Your  fault  has 
entailed  distress  not  only  upon  yourself,  but 
upon  your  relatives,  people  of  good  name  and 
good  family,  who  suffer  as  keenly  from  your 
disgrace  as  you  yourself.  Partly  out  of  con- 
sideration for  their  feelings,  and  partly  be- 
cause I  feel  that,  under  the  circumstances, 
the  law  will  be  satisfied  by  the  penalty  I  shall 
inflict,  I  sentence  you  to  imprisonment  in 
the  county  jail  for  six  months,  and  a  fine 
of  one  hundred  dollars  and  the  costs  of  this 
action." 

"  The  jedge  talks  well,  don't  he  ?  "  whis- 
pered one  spectator  to  another. 

"  Yes,  and  kinder  likes  ter  hear  hisse'f 
talk,"  answered  the  other. 

"  Ben  Davis,  stand  up,"  ordered  the  judge. 

He  might  have  said  "  Ben  Davis,  wake  up," 
for  the  jailer  had  to  touch  the  prisoner  on  the 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  311 

shoulder  to  rouse  him  from  his  stupor.  He 
stood  up,  and  something  of  the  hunted  look 
came  again  into  his  eyes,  which  shifted 
under  the  stern  glance  of  the  judge. 

"  Ben  Davis,  you  have  been  convicted  of 
larceny,  after  a  fair  trial  before  twelve  good 
men  of  this  county.  Under  the  testimony, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  of  your  guilt.  The 
case  is  an  aggravated  one.  You  are  not  an 
ignorant,  shiftless  fellow,  but  a  man  of  more 
than  ordinary  intelligence  among  your  people, 
and  one  who  ought  to  know  better.  You 
have  not  even  the  poor  excuse  of  having 
stolen  to  satisfy  hunger  or  a  physical  appetite. 
Your  conduct  is  wholly  without  excuse,  and  I 
can  only  regard  your  crime  as  the  result  of  a 
tendency  to  offenses  of  this  nature,  a  tendency 
which  is  only  too  common  among  your  people ; 
a  tendency  which  is  a  menace  to  civilization, 
a  menace  to  society  itself,  for  society  rests 
upon  the  sacred  right  of  property.  Your 
opinions,  too,  have  been  given  a  wrong  turn ; 
you  have  been  heard  to  utter  sentiments 
which,  if  disseminated  among  an  ignorant 
people,  would  breed  discontent,  and  give  rise 
to  strained  relations  between  them  and  their 
best  friends,  their  old  masters,  who  under- 


312  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

stand  their  real  nature  and  their  real  needs, 
and  to  whose  justice  and  enlightened  guid- 
ance they  can  safely  trust.  Have  you  any- 
thing to  say  why  sentence  should  not  be 
passed  upon  you  ?  " 

"  Nothin',  suh,  cep'n  dat  I  did  n'  take  de 
whip." 

"  The  law,  largely,  I  think,  in  view  of  the 
peculiar  circumstances  of  your  unfortunate 
race,  has  vested  a  large  discretion  in  courts 
as  to  the  extent  of  the  punishment  for  of- 
fenses of  this  kind.  Taking  your  case  as  a 
whole,  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  one  which, 
for  the  sake  of  the  example,  deserves  a  severe 
punishment.  Nevertheless,  I  do  not  feel  dis- 
posed to  give  you  the  full  extent  of  the  law, 
which  would  be  twenty  years  in  the  peniten- 
tiary,1 but,  considering  the  fact  that  you  have 
a  family,  and  have  heretofore  borne  a  good 
reputation  in  the  community,  I  will  impose 
upon  you  the  light  sentence  of  imprisonment 
for  five  years  in  the  penitentiary  at  hard 
labor.  And  I  hope  that  this  will  be  a  warn- 
ing to  you  and  others  who  may  be  similarly 

1  There  are  no  degrees  of  larceny  in  North  Carolina,  and 
the  penalty  for  any  offense  lies  in  the  discretion  of  the  judge, 
to  the  limit  of  twenty  years. 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  313 

disposed,  and  that  after  your  sentence  has 
expired  you  may  lead  the  life  of  a  law-abiding 
citizen." 

"  O  Ben  !  0  my  husband  !  0  God  !  " 
moaned  the  poor  wife,  and  tried  to  press  for- 
ward to  her  husband's  side. 

"  Keep  back,  Nancy,  keep  back,"  said  the 
jailer.     "  You  can  see  him  in  jail." 

Several  people  were  looking  at  Ben's  face. 
There  was  one  flash  of  despair,  and  then 
nothing  but  a  stony  blank,  behind  which  he 
masked  his  real  feelings,  whatever  they  were. 

Human  character  is  a  compound  of  ten- 
dencies inherited  and  habits  acquired.  In  the 
anxiety,  the  fear  of  disgrace,  spoke  the  nine- 
teenth century  civilization  with  which  Ben 
Davis  had  been  more  or  less  closely  in  touch 
during  twenty  years  of  slavery  and  fifteen 
years  of  freedom.  In  the  stolidity  with  which 
he  received  this  sentence  for  a  crime  which  he 
had  not  committed,  spoke  who  knows  what 
trait  of  inherited  savagery  ?  For  stoicism  is 
a  savage  virtue. 

IV 

One  morning  in  June,  five  years  later,  a 
black  man  limped  slowly  along  the  old  Lum- 


814  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

berton  plank  road ;  a  tall  man,  whose  bowed 
shoulders  made  him  seem  shorter  than  he  was, 
and  a  face  from  which  it  was  difficult  to  guess 
his  years,  for  in  it  the  wrinkles  and  flabbiness 
of  age  were  found  side  by  side  with  firm  white 
teeth,  and  eyes  not  sunken,  —  eyes  bloodshot, 
and  burning  with  something,  either  fever  or 
passion.  Though  he  limped  painfully  with 
one  foot,  the  other  hit  the  ground  impa- 
tiently, like  the  good  horse  in  a  poorly 
matched  team.  As  he  walked  along,  he  was 
talking  to  himself :  — 

"  I  wonder  what  dey  '11  do  w'en  I  git  back  ? 
I  wonder  how  Nancy  's  s'ported  the  fambly 
all  dese  years  ?  Tuck  in  washin',  I  s'ppose,  — 
she  was  a  monst'us  good  washer  an'  ironer. 
I  wonder  ef  de  chillun  '11  be  too  proud  ter 
reco'nize  deir  daddy  come  back  f'um  de  pen- 
etenchy  ?  I  'spec'  Billy  must  be  a  big  boy 
by  dis  time.  He  won'  b'lieve  his  daddy  ever 
stole  anything.  I  'm  gwine  ter  slip  roun'  an* 
s'prise  'em." 

Five  minutes  later  a  face  peered  cautiously 
into  the  window  of  what  had  once  been  Ben 
Davis's  cabin,  —  at  first  an  eager  face,  its 
coarseness  lit  up  with  the  fire  of  hope  ;  a  mo- 
ment later  a  puzzled  face ;  then  an  anxious, 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  315 

fearful  face  as  the  man  stepped  away  from 
the  window  and  rapped  at  the  door. 

"Is  Mis'  Davis  home?"  he  asked  of  the 
woman  who  opened  the  door. 

"  Mis'  Davis  don'  live  here.  You  er  mis- 
took in  de  house." 

"  Whose  house  is  dis?  " 

"  It  b'longs  ter  my  husban',  Mr.  Smith,  — 
Primus  Smith." 

"  'Scuse  me,  but  I  knowed  de  house  some 
years  ago  w'en  I  wuz  here  oncet  on  a  visit, 
an'  it  b'longed  ter  a  man  name'  Ben  Davis." 

"  Ben  Davis  —  Ben  Davis  ?  —  oh  yes,  I 
'member  now.  Dat  wuz  de  gen'man  w'at 
wuz  sent  ter  de  penitenchy  fer  sump'n  er 
nuther,  —  sheep-stealin',  I  b'lieve.  Primus," 
she  called,  "  w'at  wuz  Ben  Davis,  w'at  useter 
own  dis  yer  house,  sent  ter  de  penitenchy 
fer?" 

"  Hoss-stealin',"  came  back  the  reply  in 
sleepy  accents,  from  the  man  seated  by  the 
fireplace. 

The  traveler  went  on  to  the  next  house. 
A  neat-looking  yellow  woman  came  to  the 
door  when  he  rattled  the  gate,  and  stood 
looking  suspiciously  at  him. 

"  Wat  you  want  ?  "  she  asked. 


316  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"  Please,  ma'am,  will  you  tell  me  whether 
a  man  name'  Ben  Davis  useter  live  in  dis 
neighborhood  ?  " 

"  Useter  live  in  de  nex'  house  ;  wuz  sent 
ter  de  penitenchy  fer  killin'  a  man." 

"  Kin  yer  tell  me  w'at  went  wid  Mis' 
Davis?" 

"  Umph  !  I 's  a  'spectable  'oman,  I  is,  en 
don'  mix  wid  dem  kind  er  people.  She  wuz  'n' 
no  better  'n  her  husban'.  She  tuk  up  wid  a 
man  dat  useter  wuk  fer  Ben,  an'  dey  're  livin' 
down  by  de  ole  wagon-ya'd,  where  no  'spect- 
able 'oman  ever  puts  her  foot." 

"  An'  de  chillen  ?  " 

"  De  gal 's  dead.  Wuz  'n'  no  better  'n  she 
oughter  be'n.  She  fell  in  de  crick  an'  got 
drown' ;  some  folks  say  she  wuz  'n'  sober 
w'en  it  happen'.  De  boy  tuck  atter  his 
pappy.  He  wuz  'rested  las'  week'  fer  shootin' 
a  w'ite  man,  an'  wuz  lynch'  de  same  night. 
Dey  wa'n't  none  of  'em  no  'count  after  deir 
pappy  went  ter  de  penitenchy." 

"  What  went  wid  de  proputty  ?  " 

"  Hit  wuz  sol'  fer  de  mortgage,  er  de  taxes, 
er  de  lawyer,  er  sump'n,  —  I  don'  know  w'at. 
A  w'ite  man  got  it." 

The  man  with  the  bundle  went  on  until  he 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  317 

came  to  a  creek  that  crossed  the  road.  He 
descended  the  sloping  bank,  and,  sitting  on  a 
stone  in  the  shade  of  a  water-oak,  took  off  his 
coarse  brogans,  unwound  the  rags  that  served 
him  in  lieu  of  stockings,  and  laved  in  the 
cool  water  the  feet  that  were  chafed  with 
many  a  weary  mile  of  travel. 

After  five  years  of  unrequited  toil,  and 
unspeakable  hardship  in  convict  camps,  — 
five  years  of  slaving  by  the  side  of  human 
brutes,  and  of  nightly  herding  with  them  in 
vermin-haunted  huts,  —  Ben  Davis  had  be- 
come like  them.  For  a  while  he  had  received 
occasional  letters  from  home,  but  in  the  shift- 
ing life  of  the  convict  camp  they  had  long 
since  ceased  to  reach  him,  if  indeed  they  had 
been  written.  For  a  year  or  two,  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  innocence  had  helped  to 
make  him  resist  the  debasing  influences  that 
surrounded  him.  The  hope  of  shortening  his 
sentence  by  good  behavior,  too,  had  worked 
a  similar  end.  But  the  transfer  from  one 
contractor  to  another,  each  interested  in  keep- 
ing as  long  as  possible  a  good  worker,  had 
speedily  dissipated  any  such  hope.  When 
hope  took  flight,  its  place  was  not  long  va- 
cant.    Despair  followed,  and  black  hatred  of 


318  THE   WEB    OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

all  mankind,  hatred  especially  of  the  man  to 
whom  he  attributed  all  his  misfortunes.  One 
who  is  suffering  unjustly  is  not  apt  to  indulge 
in  fine  abstractions,  nor  to  balance  probabili- 
ties. By  long  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  his 
mind  became,  if  not  unsettled,  at  least  warped, 
and  he  imagined  that  Colonel  Thornton  had 
deliberately  set  a  trap  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  The  Colonel,  he  convinced  himself, 
had  disapproved  of  his  prosperity,  and  had 
schemed  to  destroy  it.  He  reasoned  him- 
self into  the  belief  that  he  represented  in  his 
person  the  accumulated  wrongs  of  a  Avhole 
race,  and  Colonel  Thornton  the  race  who  had 
oppressed  them.  A  burning  desire  for  re- 
venge sprang  up  in  him,  and  he  nursed  it 
until  his  sentence  expired  and  he  was  set  at 
liberty.  What  he  had  learned  since  reach- 
ing home  had  changed  his  desire  into  a 
deadly  purpose. 

When  he  had  again  bandaged  his  feet  and 
slipped  them  into  his  shoes,  he  looked  around 
him,  and  selected  a  stout  sapling  from  among 
the  undergrowth  that  covered  the  bank  of 
the  stream.  Taking  from  his  pocket  a  huge 
clasp-knife,  he  cut  off  the  length  of  an  ordi- 
nary walking  stick  and  trimmed  it.     The  result 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  319 

was  an  ugly-looking  bludgeon,  a  dangerous 
weapon  when  in  the  grasp  of  a  strong  man. 

With  the  stick  in  his  hand,  he  went  on 
down  the  road  until  he  approached  a  large 
white  house  standing  some  distance  back  from 
the  street.  The  grounds  were  filled  with  a 
profusion  of  shrubbery.  The  negro  entered 
the  gate  and  secreted  himself  in  the  bushes, 
at  a  point  where  he  could  hear  any  one  that 
might  approach. 

It  was  near  midday,  and  he  had  not  eaten. 
He  had  walked  all  night,  and  had  not  slept. 
The  hope  of  meeting  his  loved  ones  had  been 
meat  and  drink  and  rest  for  him.  But  as  he 
sat  waiting,  outraged  nature  asserted  itself, 
and  he  fell  asleep,  with  his  head  on  the  rising 
root  of  a  tree,  and  his  face  upturned. 

And  as  he  slept,  he  dreamed  of  his  child- 
hood ;  of  an  old  black  mammy  taking  care  of 
him  in  the  daytime,  and  of  a  younger  face, 
with  soft  eyes,  which  bent  over  him  some- 
times at  night,  and  a  pair  of  arms  which 
clasped  him  closely.  He  dreamed  of  his  past, 
—  of  his  young  wife,  of  his  bright  children. 
Somehow  his  dreams  all  ran  to  pleasant 
themes  for  a  while. 

Then  they  changed  again.     He  dreamed 


320  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

that  he  was  in  the  convict  camp,  and,  by  an 
easy  transition,  that  he  was  in  hell,  consumed 
with  hunger,  burning  with  thirst.  Suddenly 
the  grinning  devil  who  stood  over  him  with 
a  barbed  whip  faded  away,  and  a  little  white 
angel  came  and  handed  him  a  drink  of  water. 
As  he  raised  it  to  his  lips  the  glass  slipped, 
and  he  struggled  back  to  consciousness. 

"  Poo'  man  !  Poo'  man  sick,  an'  sleepy. 
Dolly  b'ing  f'owers  to  cover  poo'  man  up. 
Poo'  man  mus'  be  hungry.  Wen  Dolly  get 
him  covered  up,  she  go  b'ing  poo'  man  some 
cake." 

A  sweet  little  child,  as  beautiful  as  a  cherub 
escaped  from  Paradise,  was  standing  over  him. 
At  first  he  scarcely  comprehended  the  words 
the  baby  babbled  out.  But  as  they  became 
clear  to  him,  a  novel  feeling  crept  slowly  over 
his  heart.  It  had  been  so  long  since  he  had 
heard  anything  but  curses  and  stern  words  of 
command,  or  the  ribald  songs  of  obscene  mer- 
riment, that  the  clear  tones  of  this  voice 
from  heaven  cooled  his  calloused  heart  as  the 
water  of  the  brook  had  soothed  his  blistered 
feet.  It  was  so  strange,  so  unwonted  a  thing, 
that  he  lay  there  with  half-closed  eyes  while 
the  child  brought  leaves  and  flowers  and  laid 


THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  321 

them  on  his  face  and  on  his  breast,  and  ar- 
ranged them  with  little  caressing-  taps. 

She  moved  away,  and  plucked  a  flower. 
And  then  she  spied  another  farther  on,  and 
then  another,  and,  as  she  gathered  them,  kept 
increasing  the  distance  between  herself  and 
the  man  lying  there,  until  she  was  several 
rods  away. 

Ben  Davis  watched  her  through  eyes  over 
which  had  come  an  unfamiliar  softness. 
Under  the  lingering  spell  of  his  dream,  her 
golden  hair,  which  fell  in  rippling  curls, 
seemed  like  a  halo  of  purity  and  innocence 
and  peace,  irradiating  the  atmosphere  around 
her.  It  is  true  the  thought  occurred  to  Ben, 
vaguely,  that  through  harm  to  her  he  might 
inflict  the  greatest  punishment  upon  her 
father ;  but  the  idea  came  like  a  dark  shape 
that  faded  away  and  vanished  into  nothing- 
ness as  soon  as  it  came  within  the  nimbus 
that  surrounded  the  child's  person. 

The  child  was  moving  on  to  pluck  still 
another  flower,  when  there  came  a  sound  of 
hoof-beats,  and  Ben  was  aware  that  a  horse- 
man, visible  through  the  shrubbery,  was  com- 
ing along  the  curved  path  that  led  from  the 
gate  to  the  house.     It  must  be  the  man  he 


322  THE   WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

was  waiting  for,  and  now  was  the  time  to 
wreak  his  vengeance.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
grasped  his  club,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolute.  But  either  the  instinct  of  the 
convict,  beaten,  driven,  and  debased,  or  the 
influence  of  the  child,  which  was  still  strong 
upon  him,  impelled  him,  after  the  first  momen- 
tary pause,  to  flee  as  though  seeking  safety. 

His  flight  led  him  toward  the  little  girl, 
whom  he  must  pass  in  order  to  make  his  es- 
cape, and  as  Colonel  Thornton  turned  the 
corner  of  the  path  he  saw  a  desperate-looking 
negro,  clad  in  filthy  rags,  and  carrying  in  his 
hand  a  murderous  bludgeon,  running  toward 
the  child,  who,  startled  by  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps, had  turned  and  was  looking  toward  the 
approaching  man  with  wondering  eyes.  A 
sickening  fear  came  over  the  father's  heart, 
and  drawing  the  ever-ready  revolver,  which 
according  to  the  Southern  custom  he  carried 
always  upon  his  person,  he  fired  with  un- 
erring aim.  Ben  Davis  ran  a  few  yards 
farther,  faltered,  threw  out  his  hands,  and 
fell  dead  at  the  child's  feet. 

Some  time,  we  are  told,  when  the  cycle  of 
years  has  rolled  around,  there  is  to  be  an- 


THE  WEB   OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  323 

other  golden  age,  when  all  men  will  dwell  to- 
gether in  love  and  harmony,  and  when  peace 
and  righteousness  shall  prevail  for  a  thousand 
years.  God  speed  the  day,  and  let  not  the 
shining  thread  of  hope  become  so  enmeshed 
in  the  web  of  circumstance  that  we  lose  sight 
of  it ;  but  give  us  here  and  there,  and  now 
and  then,  some  little  foretaste  of  this  golden 
age,  that  we  may  the  more  patiently  and  hope- 
fully await  its  coming ! 


BLECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED 
BY  H.  O.    HOUGHTON   AND  CO. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  U.  S.  A. 


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